


Nobility

by olivieblake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Kings & Queens, Moments of dubious consent, but if you are sensitive to that sort of material, contextualized by plot, this is not the story for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 148,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivieblake/pseuds/olivieblake
Summary: When a tyrannical king takes the throne by the blood-stained tip of his sword, two women find themselves tangled in his search for power. Who is the pawn and who is the queen, and what will they sacrifice for love? Hansy/Tomione, eventual Dramione. Royalty AU. COMPLETE.





	1. Your Majesty

**Nobility**

**Summary:** _When a tyrannical king takes the throne by the blood-stained tip of his sword, two women find themselves tangled in his search for power. Who is the pawn and who is the queen, and what will they sacrifice for love? Hansy/Tomione, eventual Dramione. Historical AU._

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling.

 **A/N:** This work is an expansion of my one shot **_Chaotic Good_** (Chapter 22) from my short story collection _Amortentia._ It will follow the stories of two female narrators and protagonists (Pansy and Hermione) rather than two sides of a single romantic arc. The magic that exists in this AU is different from the Potterverse, as will become clear after some introductory material. Some characters will not be featured until later in the story, but please note the pairings listed in the summary. Please also note the **tags** , because while I do not believe the story requires a general warning, I understand that some people may be sensitive to some of the sexual dynamics that are inherent in the pseudo-historical context. It isn't unlike that of The Tudors, White Queen, etc.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Your Majesty**

Lady Pansy Parkinson fought every instinct born of pride, every fiber of her being that told her to hold her chin high - _a Parkinson, after all, of noble birth, of peerless virtue -_ to lower her eyes to the ground, her hands clasped as she walked, knowing all eyes were on her.

Her shoes tapped against the stone of the castle and she fought a brief shiver of nerves, hearing her father's voice.

"Finally," he'd said, as though the wait had exhausted him, "finally, some use for you."

"Father?" she'd asked, bowing low. She had been at the stage in her life when she was expected to be ruled by two men; her father, and the king. Shortly - within moments; within breaths - she would learn that the list would condense.

"The king has asked for you," her father supplied briskly, scarcely sparing her a glance. "You will do as you are told."

She blinked; no other option would have occurred to her. What had been the meaning of the sanctity of her blood - the radiance of her pedigree - if not for _this_?

"Yes, Father," she replied, bowing her head. Beside him, her mother said nothing, and for a moment, silence ruled; but then Pansy's mouth had parted, the force of her many private burdens bubbling helplessly to her lips, and her father had sighed with impatience.

"You have questions, I presume," he muttered, waving a hand. "So ask."

 _What if I don't love him,_ she thought to plead. _What if I don't even like him?_

"Why me?" she asked instead, and her father's lips curled into a mirthless smile.

"Remember, daughter, there are only two reasons men do anything," he informed her, rich with condescension, and she had obediently lowered her gaze, modest in her curiosity. "Power," he said firstly, "and love. But one is far more likely than the other, and _this_ ," he clarified with a careless laugh, "this, I assure you, is not love."

Pansy swallowed a bitter mouthful of fear and trapped it; then choked out, "Power, then?"

A shrug; a tacit agreement. "We may not be blessed with wealth," her father offered in answer, "but we are rich in land, and for those who see clearly, in strategy, as well."

 _True enough_ , Pansy knew.

Her father was lord of the Borderlands, and she a faithful daughter of them. The significance of this - the isolation of this - had not escaped her. Despite her practiced silence, Pansy was no fool. She knew that in life, games did not end at the edge of the board, nor did they relent to disappear past a telling line of a map - though she could not have guessed how far this king's ambitions extended.

They were rich in land, yes, and strategy; that much was true. If her father had borne sons, she knew, they would have served in the royal army, perhaps been officers at court. But Lady Dahlia, the wife Lord Parkinson had chosen for beauty and for show, had only produced a single daughter, failing him in the end - at least, until this moment, Pansy realized, recognizing something that might have passed for affection in her father's eye as he lent a solemn kiss to the word _finally._

"Finally," he'd said, "someone has need of you," and there was a joy there, in the steepled tips of his fingers; relief, at the thought of her blessed absence.

It had been an unsubtle reminder not to destroy her family's only chance to rocket into prestige. She could have been too old, or too young - the king could have called at a less ripened time than this one - but instead she was perfect; just what the king required, existing for his tastes, the highest born and most flawlessly bred from what his selection would allow. Pansy, the manifestation of Dahlia's inadequacy, would finally serve to prompt her family to rise.

Her secret fears - _what if I displease, what if I falter - what if I, like my mother, only fail? -_ were of little to no concern. Today they'd yanked her into her corset without a care to how they broke her, and oh, did she look _fine._

Her skirts rustled appealingly as she breezed through the door, the light hitting her eyes and coaxing her back to the present as she reached the Great Hall. She knew without looking up that he was there, the king himself, with her father beside him. She also knew that if not for her - if not for the king's need, and her convenient existence - her father would not find himself in such proximity; and yet still, in her knowing, she knew better - in her _noble birth_ , her _peerless virtue_ \- than to expect his gratitude, or his fondness.

She kept her eyes on the ground; she saw the king's boots first, the gilded base of his throne; his face would have to wait. She would need permission first.

"Your Majesty," she breathed, sinking into a low curtsy before him.

Silence. A rustle. He was shifting in his seat; no doubt looking her over, gauging the value of his purchase. _What does my reign cost?_ he was asking, determining with a glance if sharing her bed were a price he would be willing to pay.

"Up," he commanded, his voice low, and she rose, a puppet on his strings, her eyes demurely cast at his feet until she saw him stand; and then her breath caught as he approached her.

She knew, impeccably trained as she had been, that she was bound to acknowledge her father, to bow nearly as low to him as she had to the king, but her attention was elsewhere. The man before her - the man who was to take ownership of her - was far too distracting.

"This king," her mother had whispered, "are we sure he will be kind to her?"

Pansy, concealed in the doorway, had heard her father laugh. "Not so sure as that, wife," he returned bluntly. "But I know sureness in the weight of my purse, and that much, I can tell you, is presently wanting - and won't be, if this betrothal sticks."

A hesitant sigh from her mother. "The king is - "

"Formidable, certainly," her father supplied at once. "I will be surprised if it's a marriage of affection, seeing as this king appears to have little to spare."

There had been a rustle of skirts; a supplication.

"Surely," Dahlia whispered, "surely you can ask - "

"Ask?" her father echoed sharply, pairing his ire with a humorless laugh. "You're _soft_ ," he snapped. "You've babied her."

Anger swelled and taunted.

"My lord," her mother said imploringly, and with a telling swish of silk, Pansy heard her mother sink back into the fabric. "Apologies, my lord, if I've overstepped."

 _A dance_ , Pansy thought, observing; a bold step forward, a coquettish step back. Pansy, an able dancer, took careful note of the steps.

"How this king chooses to treat her is out of your hands, and you'll have done her no favors if you fill her head with expectations of _romance_ ," her father spat. "She'll be a queen, and her children will be princes. Kindness or not, you could wish no more for her than that."

"I wish no more for her than what you require," Dahlia murmured, a graceful finish.

 _The last step_ , Pansy knew, _is always a bow._

 _Up,_ the king had said, and so she had stood, looking him in the eye, the man who had previously amounted to less than a spectral presence in her mind. The man who, until that moment, had been no more than the sum of her father's greed and her mother's fears; the intangible shape of her future, edged by the hazy formulation of lore.

They whispered about him all over the country; so, of course, she'd heard her fair share of tales. She'd heard that he had claimed the throne in cold blood, a conqueror-king; that he had placed himself atop a throne that only noblemen had previously dared to reach for; that he muted any voice that opposed him; that he, of little name and even lower fortune, had stolen his title, made off with it by the blood-stained tip of his sword. So, in the depths of her knowing, Pansy knew that her mother's whispers of _are we sure he will be kind to her?_ were not so wildly misplaced.

What the world had failed to mention, though, in their whispers, and what Pansy took stock of now, had been the stunning arrangement of his face, sculpted from perfection and lined with a consummate grace. They, the fools who'd never laid eyes on him, had failed to speak of the rich paleness of his skin, the ebony sheen of his hair, the keen cleverness of his gaze; nor had they mentioned the velvety richness of the blue which now appraised her sharply, traveling up and down the fabric of her gown - made for this occasion - as well as the offer underneath.

Pansy shuddered, feeling naked before him despite the finery they draped her in.

"Slender," the king noted, his gaze flicking to her father. "Taller than I expected," he added, and Pansy saw the twist of mockery in his gaze, an acknowledgement of her father's known insecurity. _Are we sure he will be kind to her?_ Pansy heard Dahlia say.

Perhaps he was not a kind man; perhaps, Pansy thought, kindness was overrated.

The king reached out, lifting her chin; his blue eyes searched hers as he leaned in, something glittering in his gaze. Over his shoulder, Pansy saw her father's brow furrow; she wondered if it was concern, but knew - oh, she _knew_ \- that he was no paternal spirit. Lord Parkinson was appalled, more likely - _of little name,_ she recalled of this king, _and even lower fortune -_ but it was obvious that no one on earth would deny this man.

He was close to her now; too close. Closer than any man had dared to stand.

"Do you have desires, Lady Pansy?" the king asked, his voice low in her ear. "Do you wish for greatness, perhaps, or aspire to ascend?"

A breath separated them. She kept her head still, knowing the percussive thud of her heartbeat might be enough to tip her against him.

"I desire as you do, Your Majesty," she replied evenly, licking moisture to her lips. A step backwards; a familiar dance. _Peerless virtue,_ she offered, burning fiercely in her pride and in her strange, consuming want. _Noble birth._

The king, though, looked disappointed. He took a step back, his face composing itself from its moment of intimacy, and she realized - her heart plunging, the beat of it suspended mid-breath - that she was meant to have leapt forward.

This, she realized, was not the dance she'd been raised for.

"Lovely," he concluded, despite his disappointment; she, relieved, released a captive breath.

"Your Majesty," she said again, her voice barely a whisper. If the first time had been a greeting, this one was a promise. _My king,_ she said, swearing fealty.

He, strangely, spared an incongruous smile at her quiet offer of reverence.

"So formal," he murmured. "That won't do, if you're to be my wife." He stepped closer and she thought for a moment he meant to kiss her; she wondered if he would dare. Here, she wondered, before his lords, before her own father - _did he dare?_

He didn't. She cursed the distance between his lips and hers.

"Tom," he offered coolly, and she cursed herself this time, for finding it a blessing. "Tom will do."

"Tom," she said back, and tasted devotion on her tongue.

* * *

Hermione Granger was no lady, but she'd been damned by the fates to be born a girl.

"The brains of a man," her father had boasted. "A pity, really, to be so deprived."

"A pity, I should say," the priests had declared, "that such a gifted mind would be wasted on a woman."

"A woman," the university regents had scoffed, "do you think us fools?"

"Fools," Minerva had said, eyes sparkling as she touched her cheek, "for not seeing your potential."

Hermione had lost both her parents to the Sickness as a teenager, and society, in its endless apathy, had failed to carve out a place for her; no money had meant no value and she, narrow-hipped and small-breasted, could not even traffic on the worth of her womb. She'd been in the street, half-starved and dazed with fever, when Minerva had found her.

"Heavens, child," Minerva had said, though Hermione was more foal-resembling than actual foal. "Come in here, would you?"

 _Here,_ it turned out, had been Minerva's shop, The Room of Requirement, which Hermione had learned once belonged to Minerva's late husband. As a widow, Minerva was one of few women permitted to operate a business; one which, of course, would transfer to her next husband upon remarriage, not that such things concerned Minerva. The shop housed a strange, mismatched collection of necessities and oddities - books and perishables and trinkets - and was the kind of place, Hermione quickly learned, where a person had only to show his face before Minerva knew precisely what he was looking for.

"I'm in need of a bookkeeper," Minerva had said briskly, once she'd pumped Hermione full of food and mead and nodded appreciatively at the color that bloomed once more in her cheeks. "Have you a head for numbers?"

"Yes," Hermione said, and it was true. _The brains of a man,_ her father had said.

A pity.

"Good," Minerva determined, her lips pursing in sparse approval. "My last bookkeeper was a thief, and frankly, I hope he's gotten his due."

"What would be his due?" Hermione asked, before glimpsing her first of Minerva's rare smiles.

"If I ruled the world, he'd be strung up by his thumbnails and then pecked down to bone by parrots," Minerva said. "Notoriously long lives, parrots," she explained, brushing a speck of dust from her apron, "and tireless birds. Lovely plumage." She looked off dreamily before shaking herself of her morbid fantasy, glancing down at Hermione. "More likely though, a fool's fate; death by drink."

"How unfortunate," Hermione murmured.

Minerva lifted an eyebrow. "Believe me, dear, he was no saint."

"I meant," Hermione clarified, straightening, "how unfortunate that there were no parrots at your disposal."

"Ah, lass, _everything_ is at my disposal," Minerva informed her, though she looked pleased. "I only regret not catching him sooner."

It was illegal, of course, for Hermione - _a woman, do you think us fools? -_ to work in The Room of Requirement, and so they hid her quietly in the back. It was a perfectly fine existence, albeit a cramped one, made interesting by the pleasure of Minerva's company. She was an odd woman who kept strange hours and stranger acquaintances - in particular, a man named Xenophilius who wrote the most peculiar series of observational essays Hermione had ever read, and a second man named Filius who seemed intent on achieving flight - but who was exceedingly intriguing company. Minerva had previously had the benefit of a particularly indulgent husband, from what Hermione could gather - a brilliant mind, as well, but Hermione knew better than anyone that _that_ didn't amount to much without a permissive venue - and was eager to teach Hermione anything that served interesting.

And truly, nearly everything did - Minerva was a woman who could just as easily nourish an herb garden as she could hide a murder (Hermione suspected) and it was a pleasant existence, despite the end she knew, somehow, was coming. She had grown comfortable, and that was the thing with Hermione and comfort; she knew - the same way she knew her own heartbeat - that it always had an end.

It started with a visit.

"Who's it for?" Hermione heard Minerva say sharply, and Hermione, unsettled, crept towards the front of the store to listen. There was something unusually tense in Minerva's tone that Hermione hadn't caught before, despite her years of working there. "These are not the sort of things I provide without asking questions."

The other voice was angered. _Indignant_ , Hermione corrected herself, upon further observation; as though he were being insulted by her refusal. "I'd rethink that, if I were you," he snapped.

"Well, heavens above, thank goodness you're not," Minerva retorted venomously, "and we can both carry on in our respective positions."

"Listen," the other voice growled, "if you think I won't arrest you _right now_ \- "

"For what?" Minerva demanded, though Hermione found that reflex exceedingly unwise, as there were a number of things in the shop worth an arrest; herself, for instance. "Try me, you sad little man - "

"Pettigrew," a low, throbbing baritone remarked as heavy footsteps entered the shop, "you've upset her."

"Apologies, my lord," the first man squeaked, and Hermione heard a clatter, as though the man had fallen to his knees.

"Mistress McGonagall," the polished voice said, his steps echoing through the room, "you must forgive my quick-tempered associate."

"I can forgive a quick temper," Minerva returned staunchly. "But I care little for unnecessary vanity."

"I sympathize," the man said simply. "Go, Pettigrew," he commanded, and Hermione heard footsteps rushing hurriedly out the door.

"Now," the man said, "are we alone?"

There was a moment of hesitation.

"Yes," Minerva said firmly.

"Ah," the man tsked. "I'd prefer we not open our business relationship with lies, if I might be so bold as to make requests."

"You may not," Minerva said, but Hermione could hear her confidence waning.

"Mistress McGonagall," the man said warningly, "you've seen the list of items I need. So you know, then," he added carefully, "that I will not take kindly to a lie."

For a moment, Minerva said nothing, which was telling enough in itself; Hermione, sensing trouble, stepped out of the back office, attempting to intervene.

"Mother," she called, feigning brightness, "where should I put these - "

She stopped, seeing the man in the room. "Oh," she said faintly.

Hermione had never been one to gape at a man, but she certainly considered doing it at this one. He stood across the counter from Minerva, and even from Hermione's fairly distant vantage point, she could admire the stunning contrast of his richly pale skin and his ebony hair, the dousing blue of his eyes as they met hers, appraising her sharply.

" _Oh_ , indeed," he remarked, a touch of curiosity dancing across the bow of his lips; _amusement,_ Hermione read in the lines of his mouth. "Alone, were we?" he asked, glancing questioningly at Minerva.

"Apologies," Minerva muttered. Hermione could see her eyes were narrowed suspiciously, though she could also tell that, for whatever reason, the older woman was operating strictly within the confines of her more reserved nature. _Nerves,_ Hermione guessed. "I'd sent the girl on an errand. I hadn't been aware she'd returned."

"Mother and daughter, hm?" the man asked, his gaze flicking back to Hermione and passing quickly over her face. "You're staring," he informed her, a curve of humor to his lips.

Hermione swallowed. "Sorry," she said quickly.

"No, don't apologize," the man instructed carelessly, waving a hand. "Tell me," he ventured, gesturing to himself, "what is it that you see?"

Hermione paused. Minerva seemed to be holding her breath.

"Money," Hermione replied.

The man laughed. "Is it so obvious in this garb?" he asked, gesturing to his wardrobe.

"It's what I see in every customer," Hermione assured him, moving to stand beside Minerva. Up close, the stranger's eyes were even more astounding; an azure, a celestial blue. "What is it you're wishing to acquire from my mother?"

The man, who was still watching her closely, considered her a moment before speaking.

"Your nose," he said slowly.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Your nose," the man repeated, "is not long or prominent enough for this to be your mother. Your lips are fuller," he added, "and your cheekbones higher." He glanced at Minerva, and then back at Hermione. "Your eyes," he murmured. "A deeper shade of brown."

"I don't know whether you believe yourself a master of art or science," Hermione said, stiffening, "but perhaps you fail to consider I might have inherited those traits from my father."

"Or," the man said, "perhaps you're lying, and you're doing something you shouldn't."

Hermione, alarmed at the accusation, drew back; Minerva, who appeared to have noticed something during the exchange, leaned forward, regaining control of the conversation.

"These things that you want," Minerva began. "I don't have them."

"But you can get them," the man determined firmly, shifting his attention back to her. "Can't you?"

"I can," Minerva said slowly. _Ah, lass, everything is at my disposal,_ Hermione heard her say. "And am I to assume there is a cost, if I do not?" she added, her tone marked with even deliberation.

"Ah, so there _is_ one trait you share," the man said, glancing knowingly at Hermione. "You both trust me so very, very little."

"Hazards of being weak-minded women," Hermione supplied flatly. "You understand."

The man eyed her carefully, the amusement fading from his features.

"You are many things," he permitted, his gaze locking on hers. "But I am not fool enough to think 'weak-minded' among them."

For a moment - in a chilling breath - Hermione glimpsed something in his eyes; a flash of futures and pasts, a blinding glimmer of chaos, of intertwining strands of light. _A snake_ , she thought, _and a lioness_ ; passion and blood and bone. A brash darkness, a bright paleness, a flash of raven hair - a touch in the darkness, the sputtering of a candle flame, the hollow glow of a raised crown, a strike of steel against gold -

And then she blinked and it was gone, and he turned back to Minerva.

"You can procure the items I require," he concluded. "Can you not?"

Hermione waited as Minerva eyed him closely, considering her options.

"I can," she said.

The man's lips curled into a smile. "And _will_ you?"

The corners of Minerva's mouth twitched. "I will," she promised coolly, and then time stopped: "If it pleases Your Majesty," she added, casting the words at his feet.

Hermione felt the air drain from her lungs as the man's - the _king's_ \- eyes narrowed.

"That," he remarked curtly, "seems overly formal, don't you think?"

"If it pleases Your Majesty," Minerva repeated, and the king's mouth tightened to a grimace.

"Well," he said, looking displeased. "I suppose I should be satisfied having gotten what I came for." He shifted his stance, glancing again between them. "I should have known Pettigrew did not possess the subtlety to handle these matters with the necessary sensitivity," he added, somewhat apologetically. "Perhaps Severus will be more to your liking, for future visits."

"Not you?" Hermione asked, the words seeming to tumble forth without her consent. "Your Majesty," she added hastily, lowering her chin in horror as Minerva tossed her a sidelong glare.

Despite her impertinence, the king chuckled, giving her a thorough once-over. "Do you wish me to come back, Miss" - he paused, eyeing Minerva and nodding, as though he were agreeing to carry on the charade - "McGonagall?"

Hermione's heart leapt furiously to her throat. "If your Majesty wishes," she said faintly, but even she could hear the shudder of pleading in her tone.

The king smiled like he could swallow her whole, and she met his eye like she would let him.

"Call me Tom," he suggested.

 _Tom,_ she heard herself say from somewhere far away, _Tom, please -_

"Tom, then," she replied, and in the span of breath she molted, shed her old skin, and changed, newly burdened by something she didn't yet know how to name.


	2. Don't Bend

**Chapter 2: Don't Bend**

For Pansy, who was accustomed to a pace of existence that stretched and yawned - a cycle of directionless wakings and wanderings that repeated in a paralyzing current - time seemed to grow wings as it sprinted towards her wedding, jostling and feverish.

There had been no returning to the Borderlands. In a word - _lovely,_ the king had said, and that was that - Tom had claimed her, the life she'd once known yanked from her back, shed like a worn out cloak. _Say goodbye to Mother,_ Pansy had wanted to shout, but held her tongue; affection wouldn't translate properly from her father's lips, and it wasn't worth the shame of the unspoken _I'll miss you,_ the weakness of confessing _I'm scared._

She was nudged into some temporary quarters while her wedding suite was renovated, which she might have minded - the idea that they used to belong to someone else, that is; that unlike the Borderlands, which were _home,_ and stationary, being at court in Diagon just meant that there was always someone coming in to take someone else's place - if she weren't distracted by all the things she'd never realized she'd have to _learn._

It started with Daphne.

"My lady," a man had said, someone Pansy had gathered was close to Tom, but whose name she couldn't remember; _he looks so severe,_ she thought, and fought a shiver. "His Majesty the king has requested that I introduce you to Lady Daphne Nott."

He took a step back with a swoop of his overlong robes, revealing a young woman in the doorway, approximately Pansy's height and build. She was fair-skinned and slender, her long auburn hair swept back and into a fashionable twist, and if nothing else - if she were not so clearly elegant, and visibly well-bred - the fine sheen of silk that she wore gave her away. Were Pansy not betrothed to Tom, she knew, this woman would outrank her.

 _Don't cower,_ Pansy growled to herself, _don't bend -_

"Your Majesty," Lady Daphne said softly, sweeping her skirts back and dropping into an elegant curtsy. "A pleasure."

Pansy swallowed. "Not yet," she said back, taking a step towards her. "No Majesty yet."

Boldly, Daphne looked up, eyes glinting. "Call it practice, then," she murmured, and Pansy smiled her tentative approval.

"Lady Nott's family are staunch allies of His Majesty," the slippery-toned man explained. "She is to lead your household once you've been crowned."

 _Ah,_ Pansy realized, seeing. _Assignment to the queen would be a reward for the Nott family, then._ She glanced down, summoning her airs to make the offering worthwhile; to be, then, the authority that Lady Daphne and her faceless kin were honored to serve.

"You may rise," she instructed stiffly, and Daphne swept up, her movements fluid and buttery. The swish of silk was softer than a breath, more subtle than the flush of young womanhood that rose to Daphne's cheeks.

"His Majesty honors me," she said, "as do you."

Pansy looked up; the man was watching, calculating her motions.

"I trust that His Majesty has chosen well in you," she responded neatly, remembering the dance, and then the man nodded his approval, squaring his shoulders.

"If there is nothing else, my lady?" he asked, and Pansy shook her head.

 _Thank you,_ she thought to say as he turned, but bit her tongue; _shoulders back,_ she thought instead, _and let the play commence._

"Lady Daphne," she said, and the other woman smiled.

"You won't need to fear me," Daphne said encouragingly, stepping forward. "I'm truly blessed to be in your service, and will not covet your position." She glanced up, her eye caught on a stray strand that had slipped out from Pansy's loose chignon, as though she might have brushed it away. "I'm here to help you."

"Help me," Pansy said back, swallowing her nerves. "With?"

"Forgive me, my lady," Daphne said, stepping forward, "but as we're alone, might I be frank?"

 _You already are,_ Pansy thought, but nodded. "If you wish."

Daphne smiled. "Life in Diagon is no Borderlands court," she said, both firm and gentle. "Out there in the wild, nature makes the strong survive. Here, though," she said, tilting her head in warning, "amongst the snakes, the strong must be clever as well."

"The snakes," Pansy repeated, thinking of Tom's emblem; _a snake_ , she recalled, _fanged and venomous, and rearing to strike._

"Be sure you never forget," Daphne advised, her eyes glinting. "That's lesson number one."

"Of how many?" Pansy prompted, taken aback.

"Best not to tell," Daphne replied, and then smiled again. "And that's lesson two," she added, "for in this court, a woman's power is in her omissions."

"It seems I have much to learn," Pansy remarked sullenly, gently displeased, and Daphne, who knew the steps as she did, deftly retreated; _pas de bourrée_ , Pansy thought, _en arriere_.

"Your Majesty is gracious to indulge my imprudence," Daphne conceded, pairing the statement with a downward tilt of her head. "It is not my intent to belittle your home court; only to prepare you, as I would a friend," she explained, "or a sister, to the ways of this one."

"A sister," Pansy repeated, feeling a foolish leap in her chest at the thought.

"Should Your Majesty require it," Daphne assured her, "or, in any way, wish it." She took a step forward, closing the distance between them to speak softly, the words for Pansy's ear alone. "This is a lonely place, at times," she murmured kindly, brushing her fingers against Pansy's arm. "There will be times that you long for affection."

 _I know it already,_ Pansy thought, but fought to cover her longing.

"Is that lesson three?" she asked, cautiously neutral.

"Lesson three is to keep your friends close," Daphne agreed, "so yes, in a sense." Her resplendent smile returned. "Your Majesty is a quick study."

"If we're to be sisters," Pansy ventured, "perhaps Pansy will better serve, in private."

Daphne's hazel eyes glinted, pleasure immeasurable in her glance. "Pansy, then," she agreed, looking vacantly euphoric.

"What else can you teach me?" Pansy asked, and Daphne's wide eyes flashed ever so slightly, a simmering look of calculation evident on her artfully pretty face.

"In the vein of lesson three," she said, taking Pansy's arm and leading her to the corridor, "it's best to know one's friends, in order to keep them close."

"You," Pansy guessed, "and your family?"

"My husband, certainly," Daphne agreed, taking a sharp right turn. "The younger Lord Theodore Nott. A duke, or will be. But more importantly," she said emphatically, "a Loyalist. You'll want him close."

"You're married?" Pansy asked, and Daphne's resulting smile dazzled.

"Yes, and I'll give you wedding night advice when the time calls for it," she whispered conspiratorially, "but first things first."

"But say I want _those_ things first?" Pansy pressed, disappointed.

"Well, to that, I'd say you're the queen, and so be it," Daphne returned, grinning. "You're nervous, then, I take it?"

Pansy thought of Tom's sharp blue eyes, the blade of his jaw; the way he was such inconceivable power condensed so firmly into a man.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, Theo's certainly not His Majesty," Daphne remarked, a look of fondness coming over her face, "but I was more than a little anxious myself. Tell me," she added, pausing their progress to face her, "is it your pain that concerns you, or the king's pleasure?"

Pansy swallowed; there was a correct answer and a true one, and they were not the same.

"Sisters?" she clarified, and Daphne nodded solemnly. "Then both."

Gratifyingly, Daphne seemed to understand. "The pain is not so bad," she said. "Nothing like you probably imagine. I'll teach you some things," she added. "And as for pleasing the king, men are simple enough." She looked a bit smug at that. "I'd wager your daily dressing to be more complex than a man's anatomy."

Pansy wished desperately to laugh, but the effort caught in her throat.

"Is your husband - " she hesitated. "Is he . . . kind?"

"Prodigiously," Daphne said, a hint of rose coloring her cheek at the thought. "I'm luckier than most."

Pansy nodded. "Have you been married long?"

"Not at all," Daphne said, shaking her head, before looping her arm through Pansy's and continuing their path through the castle. "Betrothed for ages, since we were children. But with the king choosing a wife the wedding was pushed up, so that the head of your house would be suitably" - she paused, thinking - "experienced, I suppose." She considered it, and then amended her thought. "Tested, I think, is the better word."

Pansy hummed her agreement. "How long ago were you married?" she asked.

"Two months," Daphne said. "I spend a night a week with him, and it's - " she blushed, looking contentedly radiant. "It's not something to fear, anyway. Marriage, I mean," she clarified, stumbling a bit for the first time since their conversation began.

Pansy smiled. "You like him?" she asked. "Your husband?"

Daphne's flush deepened. "I honor him, of course," she said hastily, "and I do not delude myself that it was a match made to deepen his coffers and strengthen my father's name, but - "

Pansy squeezed her arm. "I am certain he likes you, too."

Daphne laughed. "You hardly know me."

"Surely you don't mean to question my authority," Pansy said, pursing her lips in jest, and Daphne's laugh rang between them again.

Pansy, though, was sobered, lost in thought at the prospect that maybe - perhaps, if she were lucky, and took Daphne's lessons to heart - she might also possess such a thing; a love, perhaps, or even an innocent liking; whatever it was that brought such delight to Daphne's face at the thought of her husband, even if she lacked the certainty of knowing her feelings were returned.

But then Pansy saw Tom again, felt the powerful lurch in her chest at the sight of him, and knew that for them there would be no simple concept of affection. Where Daphne was made a rose by her husband, something delicate and blooming, Pansy was made a monster by the man who was to be hers; her own yearning was unrecognizable to the girl she thought she'd been. Even now she burned for him, and it was no simple want. It was alluring and bewildering, and with no innocence in sight.

Pansy was not yet granted a seat at his right hand; he presided over his court in solitude. He kept some men close to him - the man called Severus, she had learned, proving her judgment of _severe_ to not be entirely off base; a small man that Tom called Pettigrew, who ran his errands; and a cloistered host of privileged lords - none which could truly be called _friends_ , which he seemed not to possess; nor advisors, as he seemed disinclined to call for advice.

He sat alone, god-like, and occasionally his dark gaze fell on Pansy, rendering her speechless. But when his attention wandered - as it often did - she found herself anxious and agitated.

"Tell me," Pansy said over dinner, leaning in to speak to Daphne as Severus approached Tom, relaying a message, "what other lessons do you have for me, Lady Nott?"

Daphne, whose attention had seemed to catch on Pansy's rapturous glance at Tom, smiled knowingly.

"A woman's battlefield is her court," Daphne determined. "You'll have to place your front lines carefully to keep yourself protected."

"A battlefield," Pansy repeated, confused. "Is this war?"

"Of sorts," Daphne permitted, her lips curling into a smile. "Or did you think the king would do all the fighting for you?"

Pansy frowned. "I don't understand."

Had the fight not already been won when Tom had chosen her? _Am I to be queen,_ she thought, _or not?_

Daphne laughed. "Oh, I'd forgotten how jaded we all are living at court," she remarked, and then refocused her attention on Pansy. "No, I suppose it wouldn't make sense - here, let me explain." She glanced up, looking around the room. "Do you see my husband over there?"

Pansy looked up. "Yes," she said, catching sight of him, the tall, wiry, dark-haired man that Daphne had pointed out in the courtyard earlier that day, and whose eyes had settled longingly on his wife from afar.

"That's the younger Lord Malfoy with him," Daphne explained, hiding a smile as she caught Theo's eye and forcibly shifting her attention, gesturing to the pale blond man beside him. "And how close would you say they are to the king?"

"Very close," Pansy judged, eyeing them. "Aren't they?"

"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Because their families were loyal to the king when he claimed the throne. In fact," she added absentmindedly, "without them, I'd wager - " She stopped abruptly, her cheeks turning pink. "Forgive me," she murmured, bowing her head.

Pansy eyed her, wondering what she'd been about to confess.

"Without them," Pansy guessed, "problems?"

"Yes," Daphne said, looking as though she were hesitant to explain. "They - "

She was interrupted, startled, by a boisterous intrusion at the entrance to the room, and Pansy momentarily forgot herself, nearly leaping at the sound. Two men had burst riotously through the doors of the Great Hall, laughing and shoving in jest, garnering themselves glares from Tom and Severus where the two heads had been bent in conspiracy.

"Oh," Daphne tsked, shaking her head in disapproval.

Pansy watched the two men find their seats; far away from Tom, she noted, and thought of Daphne's lesson, of their placement on the battlefield. She ought to have looked away, she knew - and after a moment she managed it - but she felt her gaze snag slightly; it seemed her powers of sight were briefly caught on one of them, whose jewel-toned eyes danced with mischief.

"Who is he?" Pansy asked, gesturing.

"Ronald Weasley," Daphne replied, "the redhead, on the right. A would-be earl, though we've nearly all forgotten, considering how many Weasley sons there are." She made a face. "Too many."

"Not him," Pansy corrected quickly, then blushed.

"Ah," Daphne said sagely, fighting a smile. "Yes. Henry Potter," she explained. "Duke of Grimmauld. Called Harry," she added. "A people's prince, as it were." She turned scarlet. "Though not truly a prince, of course - God save the King," she murmured, a last minute reparation.

"A prince?" Pansy echoed. "The indiscretion forgiven," she added, muttering it under her breath and raising an eyebrow in warning.

Daphne bit her lip tentatively, nodding her understanding. "Some say the throne belongs to him," she said, a bit hurried as she pushed through the inadvisable conversation. "There was talk of rebellion, at one point, to displace the king in favor of Harry."

"No," Pansy whispered in disbelief, feeling a stir of something in her chest as she watched him, the reckless young man who could inspire such an improbable reach of treason. "Why?"

"He's well loved, as was his family," Daphne explained. "The king is - "

She broke off. Pansy nodded; she understood. Tom's was a harsh beauty, like a knife edge, that inspired more fear than fondness.

"His claim, though," Pansy pressed. "This Lord Henry - is he legitimate?"

"He is a descendant of the Peverell family," Daphne supplied, "through the youngest son."

The Peverells were no innocuous name; Pansy looked curiously at Tom, whose brow was furrowed in thought.

"The youngest son," Pansy echoed skeptically. "Surely the king's claim is stronger, then? The eldest descendant of the Gaunt family, is he not?"

"Warring families, warring beliefs," Daphne determined with a shrug. "And there are those who doubt the king's relations to the Gaunts. Not I, of course," she said hastily. "Nor my husband."

"You said there was talk of rebellion," Pansy recalled slowly. "What happened?"

Daphne glanced up, her gaze falling on Tom. "They were silenced," she said ominously, and did not elaborate.

Pansy watched across the room as Henry-called-Harry threw himself at a table, digging into his food. He was lively and spirited, his expression bright and kind; his manners utterly atrocious.

"He looks like a knave," Pansy sniffed.

"He is," Daphne confirmed, her lips curling up in a smile. "Keep your distance."

"Keep your friends close," Pansy murmured, a soft contradiction, "but your enemies closer?"

"Not him," Daphne warned, and Pansy nodded, forcing her gaze away.

* * *

"I think I've discovered the secret this time," Filius babbled to Hermione as she leaned against the counter. "If I only had the wings of a bird - "

"Yes, I suppose that would increase your likelihood of flight," Hermione agreed, lips pursed in somber amusement. "Among other things."

"Yes, _but_ , specifically, the _bones_ of a bird," Filius explained, "hollowed out, you see - "

"Do you wish me to do the hollowing?" Hermione asked playfully. "I'm not certain it'd do you much good, but I'm happy to help."

Filius opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted as the door opened, revealing the dark form of the man Hermione had come to learn was called Severus Snape.

"Leave us," Severus instructed, and Filius, after a nod from Hermione, warily retreated, giving Severus a look of skepticism before slipping out the door.

"Is your mother around?" Severus asked, removing a set of dark gloves, and Hermione nodded.

"In the back room," she explained. "You can head back there now, if you like." She paused, and then, as though the words fought their way from her lips, she blurted helplessly, "Are you alone?"

Severus paused before striding past her, a smirk flitting across his lips. "No," he said, gesturing behind him, and then the door opened.

"Tom," Hermione said, her mouth going dry, as the sound of Severus' steps faded behind her.

He smiled, brushing dust from his traveling cloak. "Miss McGonagall," he said, inclining his head. "A pleasure."

She swallowed, trying to settle herself into detached nonchalance. "Severus just went in to see Min- I mean, my mother," she said, gesturing behind her, "if you were looking to speak to her."

"Oh, Miss McGonagall, there's really no need to be so coy," Tom said, still smiling as he approached her. "We don't really need to bother ourselves with the trivialities of appearances, do we?"

"Say I did wish to bother myself," she invited. "What would such a thing look like?"

Tom cocked his head, thinking. "Miss McGonagall," he ventured, spirited in his play-acting, "would you, perhaps, assist me in finding a gift for my betrothed? She's about your age," he estimated, his gaze flicking over her, "and I trust your taste."

"Betrothed," Hermione repeated, her heart suddenly a dull thud in her ears. "I see." She straightened, forcing herself not to bend. "And what would it look like, then, without the burden of pretense?"

He leaned in, his voice a low breath in her ear. "Hermione," he murmured. "I've been thinking about you."

She shuddered, and then reined the pieces of herself back in.

"So you're going to be married," she said, compelling herself to focus. "You hadn't mentioned that you were taking a wife."

"Would you, if you were me?" he asked, leaning his elbows onto the counter.

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't pretend to understand your motivations, Tom."

He chuckled. "You don't _pretend_ , no, but you do," he said, and she, forcing herself not to be swayed, said nothing.

Tom, noting her silence, began to walk around the store, eyeing the oddities that hung from the ceiling, the varieties of objects that were thrown into cauldrons, slipped into vials, and heaped onto pedestals around the room.

"She is the daughter of Lord Parkinson, who oversees the Borderlands," Tom explained, not looking at Hermione. "I need to secure his loyalty in order to ensure that we don't run into trouble defending Diagon's northern border in the future."

"And you do this by marrying his daughter?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"No, I do it by filling his pockets," Tom said, shrugging. "The daughter aspect is a bit more complicated; though in general, it serves to legitimize the process." His mouth twitched. "It's a subtle thing, the difference between bribery and betrothal."

"Complicated," Hermione mused. "Do you find the idea of monogamy restricting?"

"Oh, Hermione, you give me no credit," Tom remarked coolly, his voice a low throb in the drafty room. "I'm the king, aren't I?" His smile was both stunning and cold. "I belong to no one."

She blinked away her inexplicable feeling of disappointment.

"The daughter, then," Hermione pressed. "Her significance?"

"Easy," Tom said, shrugging. "My reign is contested. Her blood, thankfully, is not. I purchased the loyalty of her father," he reminded her, and Hermione nodded, "and she, then, anchors the kingdom."

"Quite a task for a young woman," Hermione commented. "Is she up for it?"

"She's certainly well bred, well trained, well educated," Tom said, though the listing of her beneficial qualities seemed to strike him as tiresome. "I'd hoped that I might - "

He broke off, and Hermione met his eye curiously, waiting.

"She'll serve," Tom finished ambiguously.

"You sound disappointed," Hermione remarked, taking a step to join him in the center of the shop. "Perhaps the king can afford to take a wife who - "

"Excites him?" Tom supplied, smirking. "Ah, but a king is not a god, Hermione, and it is not for men to possess both ambition and contentment."

"So you choose ambition, then," Hermione commented blandly. "Does she?"

"Does it matter?" Tom asked. "She's reached the height of hers either way, hasn't she?"

"You mean because she's a woman, she can aim no higher than to wed a king?" Hermione scoffed, with a brush of irritation. "Revolutionary."

"I mean because she's a _noblewoman_ , she can aim no higher," Tom corrected. He reached out, lightly brushing his thumb against her chin. "Not every woman is you, Hermione." He eyed her closely, his blue eyes scanning her face. "None, in fact," he murmured, "and it is a waste, indeed."

For a moment, despite the unexpected hint of sincerity on his face, Hermione was paralyzed with fury.

"A waste that I was not born a man, you mean?" she prompted, knocking his hand away. "Your creativity is lacking, Tom," she growled, "as I've heard that one before - "

"No," Tom interrupted sharply, catching her wrist as she moved to step away from him. "No," he repeated, his eyes flashing, "it is a waste that _I_ cannot - "

Her breath caught, twisting dangerously in her throat, and he coughed.

"A waste," he repeated, softer this time as he released her hand, "that the crown has not been made that would sit upon your head."

Her captive breath escaped her.

"What makes you think I would aspire to a crown?" Hermione asked, retracting the hand he had touched and holding it to her chest; _it stung_ , she thought, _and burned,_ and she wondered if he himself were fire.

Tom smirked knowingly at that. "Play whatever games you wish, Hermione, but we both know it's not the crown itself that calls, but the authority," he said, and paused. "The potential," he murmured, "and the power."

The last word was nearly a sensual whisper, and when his voice trailed off, she realized she had leaned in helplessly, lips parted; it was like he was calling to some piece of her that whispered in her ear - that nudged her, beckoned to her, crooked a finger and smiled at her, licking its lips - and she imagined it tasted sweet on her tongue.

 _Power,_ she thought, and considered its resemblance to Tom.

"Power to do some good in the world, I'd hope," Hermione offered, hearing the hint of suspicion in her own voice, and Tom smiled.

"Don't tell me you subscribe to such rigid polarities," he teased; nudging her, beckoning her, crooking a finger and smiling. "Good and bad," he offered for consideration, toying with the words like they were playthings in his hand. "Do you really believe ambition to be such a threatening concept?"

"In the abstract? No," she said. "Yours, though - "

She broke off, and his smile faded. "Feels familiar, doesn't it?" he asked, looking as though he might step forward; she held her breath.

But then he stepped back, and she wilted.

"Do you know how I took the throne?" he asked, speaking aimlessly into the room. "They didn't hand it to me." He looked around, half a smile flitting over his lips. "Fools."

She cleared her throat, careful with her cards. "I'm not immune to gossip, Tom," she said, feeling again the stitch of irritation. "Just because I don't reside to play your court games doesn't mean I sit in the dark, begging for your stories."

He inclined his head; amusement, she recognized, and confirmation.

"You're right that you don't play my court games, and I am grateful for that," Tom remarked evenly. "As would be the others, I presume, were they to know how skillfully you play."

 _A compliment, but a patronizing one,_ she ruled; it was as though she were a child and he had patted her head, commending her for her cleverness.

"You wish to tell?" she asked coldly, and gestured, inviting him. "Then tell."

He chuckled. "You can bring a man to his knees, can't you?" he asked, his gaze flicking to her lips. "You can bend a king to your will."

She pursed her lips, waiting.

"They call me a conqueror-king," Tom said, "The Loyalists. The others - they claim I stole the throne, by my bare hand - "

"By the tip of your sword, as I've heard it told," she supplied, and his eyes flashed.

"By neither, as it turns out," he said.

She considered him from afar.

"You wish to reveal something," she deduced quietly. "Why?"

He stiffened slightly, glancing away. "Coming here does not befit a king," he said eventually, shrugging. "And when Severus is finished with your mother" - he paused at that, smirking - "my business with her will be complete. For now." He paused, searching her face for a reaction. "And while I may require more from her in the future, there is no reason for me to oversee it personally."

The thought of him gone was a strike to her core. "That's not an answer," she admonished him, clinging desperately to her sanity, and he stared at her.

"The things I require from Minerva," Tom said. "Do you know what they are?

 _Be careful with him,_ Minerva had said, the second time he'd come. Hermione had never seen her so nervous. _He's more than what he seems._

 _More than a king?_ Hermione mused, and Minerva flinched.

 _More than,_ she confirmed stiffly, _and less._

"What did you do, Tom?" Hermione asked, breathless with fear and awe. "What is it you can do?"

He took three long strides to reach her and she gasped, her eyes at his chest.

"Tell me why I come here," he said, and it was half a demand, half a plea. "Say it out loud."

She shook her head. "I - I don't know - "

He reached out, gripping her arms tightly; _too_ tightly, and she was contained and alarmed, captive and fighting for breath.

"You know what I can do," he said. "You _know_ , Hermione - "

She put her hand up, pressed it to his chest - _no,_ her mind sobbed, _stop_ \- but she could already see it; the glow that outlined her palm, the flash of white that jolted through them both, emanating from the lines of her hand.

She gasped, jerking her hand back, but it was too late; a spark leapt from her palm and Tom watched, dazzled, perversely delighted, as a crisp white flame sputtered and melted and became a layer of frost, dissipating in the span of a breath.

"Tell me why I come here," he whispered again, and she looked up.

"Because I'm like you," she realized, and he licked his lips, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This is my favorite WIP, so when I decided to save it as a reward for good behavior last week, I found that to be a very frustrating wait! Apologies. This is for sofisamu, for whom I wrote the original one shot - thank you, my love, for the inspiration! I'm ever so thrilled you've revealed yourself.
> 
> Oh, and to those of you with an interest in history/inspiration, imagine the Peverells and Gaunts to be essentially the Tudors and Plantagenets. Which is which? We'll see.


	3. Find Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: sexual scenes ahead.

**Chapter 3: Find Out**

"What does this mean," Hermione choked out, forcing remnants of panic down her throat as Tom eyed her palm, something predatory sparking in his gaze. "This,  _all_  of this - and  _you -_ "

"It means," he said, his fingers closing around her wrist, "that you, as I suspected, are more than what you seem. How many times have you survived?" he asked, his grasp on her tightening fiercely as he leaned in, a glimmer of desperation in his eye. "Who are you really?"

"I - " she hesitated, realizing how close he was to her. "You  _know_  who I am - "

He released her hand, then, considering her. "I suspect I have no idea who you are," he murmured, curling a finger under her chin. "Nor, I'd wager, does the woman in the other room," he said, his eyes lifting to gesture over her shoulder, "who I'm now  _quite_  certain is not your mother."

She swallowed. "You can't," she began quietly, before deflating."She - she was just trying to  _help_  me - "

Something hardened in his eye at that, a sharp slice of humor, and he let out a scoffing laugh. "I'm not going to arrest Minerva if you tell me the truth," he informed her flatly. "This is far more important than whether or not you're working illegally in this shop.  _You_  are far more important," he clarified, sliding the backs of his fingers along her jaw, and she struggled not to dissolve at his touch.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, with a strike of authority. "Who are you?"

It had been so long since she'd said it.

"Hermione Granger," she confessed, swallowing. "My parents - they died, the Sickness, and Minerva took me in - "

"Was that the only time?" Tom pressed. "Was that the only time you should have died?"

"I - I don't know," Hermione said, confused. "How am I to know that?

"I knew there was a reason I was called here," he murmured, stepping impossibly close, her chest pressed tightly to his; it was only when his breath was dancing on her lips that she realized his hands had moved, that he'd pulled her  _closer_  - "I knew there was something about you that called to me."

"About me?" she asked breathlessly. "Or about what I can do?"

He paused at that, his thumb poised to brush over her lip.  _About me,_  she begged silently;  _let it be me that you want._

"What else can you do?" he prompted, choosing instead to slide a hand around her arm, an underwhelming, listless caress. "Can you conjure? Or charm?"

"What?" she asked, blinking. "I - I can't do anything, it's only - only sometimes that I do things, but it's - " She shook her head. "It's outside my control, it's never anything useful, and I've never told anyone - "

"Come to the castle, then," he said, tracing the lines of her palm. "Let me teach you what I know."

"The castle?" Hermione repeated, astounded. "Impossible."

"Would you deny a king?" he asked, a sly smile dripping across his lips.

"King or not, you know I don't belong there," she reminded him, shaking her head. " _They'll_  know I don't belong there."

"Who cares what they think?" Tom countered, taking another step, prompting her, until she was trapped between him and the counter.

She inhaled sharply. "Will they not question - "

"Let them question, if they wish," he interrupted. "Let them be the fools who would stand against me." His lips hovered over her ear, his breath a silken promise that shouted above the sound of blood rushing through her veins. "I would put you above all others," he whispered. "I would worship you above all else."

She shuddered, and then sparked with rage at what his closeness was implying.

"I will not be your whore," she gritted out, shoving him away. "I have no interest in being anyone's mistress, not even a  _king's_  - "

"If I wanted a whore, I could have one," he snapped, gripping her arm as she made to sweep past him. "I could have every woman in this kingdom on her knees with a  _word_  - "

"Not me," she snarled. "You won't have  _me_ , Tom - "

"No man on earth could possess you," he hissed in agreement, and he had yanked her back again, her breasts pushed up against the expanse of his chest and she burned, and she burned, and she  _burned_  - "I don't wish to own you, Hermione. I've got trinkets enough for that."

"Then what do you want with me?" she whispered, lifting her chin defiantly;  _a breath between them_ , she measured,  _and what good was a breath_  -

"I cannot know you exist in this world and not have you by my side," he murmured back, and if the man had ever bent,  _this_ was what it looked like, a lick of supplication to the slightest tilt of his head. "I cannot amount to more than I am if I'm to suffer in your vacancy."

"Am I to be your power, then?" she asked. "Is it my - " she looked down, at her hand that had curled itself possessively around the base of his throat, and felt the potency in her fingers sing. "Is it this, or is it me?"

"There is no separation," he said back, and she felt him swallow beneath her hand, ardent and greedy and  _starved_. "You and your power, me and my crown - we are not whole, we are not ourselves without them."

 _A snake,_ she thought,  _and a lioness; passion and blood and bone -_

"Who was foolish enough to let you take this kingdom?" she whispered. "What have they brought upon themselves?"

He smiled, a new smile; a man handed a bloodied weapon.

"Come with me," he beckoned softly, "and find out."

* * *

"Oh, my lady," the dressmaker crooned, "you are a portrait come to life."

 _I am,_  Pansy thought, eyeing her reflection, the emerald damask of the gown, woven with silver thread; the jewels that shone as she moved - or would have, though she didn't. She  _couldn't_. They had pulled and prodded, tugged and twisted, until she scarcely remembered she'd once had limbs. She was reduced to an unstable limpness; a perfect little doll.

 _His_  doll, she reminded herself. A matter of hours now, and she would be his; Tom's. His wife, his Queen. His possession.

Not that she wasn't already, but the gown had served a startling reminder. Nothing left on her body had been hers; even the linens, the satin, the silk above her bones, bore his seal, and she was marked for him.

For life.

She strained for breath - too hard - and a dull pain ached in her chest; she rubbed at her clavicle, trying to move, but the weight of the sleeves - the inside lined with diamonds and pearls - was burdensome, and punishing.

"I - I can't breathe," Pansy gasped, pulling at the bones of her corset and turning desperately towards Daphne. "Lady Nott - I, I can't - "

"Leave us," Daphne called to the other ladies, to the dressmaker and the stewards, gesturing for them to exit the room. She walked to the double doors, maintaining her regal posture as she pulled them shut, and then hurried to step behind Pansy, unlacing the bodice. "Hold still," she murmured, her fingers cool and comforting, holding steady where Pansy shook. "Breathe, Your Majesty - "

"Breathe in," Daphne gestured, and Pansy inhaled - "and out," she motioned, stroking Pansy's back as the fabric of the gown finally gave way, and Pansy tore the dress from her skin, not stopping until she stood above the wreckage of garments, the shift and petticoat left as casualties on the floor as she shook and gasped for air.

_Finally, some use for you - finally, someone has need of you -_

Daphne's arms wrapped around her, her slender fingers loosing Pansy's hair from its tight coil to lightly tousle themselves through her dark waves, her touch a blessed relief until Pansy's pulse had finally slowed, the rush of blood in her ears gradually lessening to a whisper of  _what if I fail, what if I fail, what if I fail -_

"I'm afraid," she whispered, and Daphne sighed, her chin nudging into Pansy's shoulder as she nodded.

"I know," she murmured, still stroking her hair. "I know."

She pulled away, taking Pansy by the shoulders and drawing her up, looking her in the eye.

"You can't let your fear drive you," Daphne said. "You  _must not_  collapse."

 _Don't bend,_  Pansy thought,  _don't break -_

She forced herself to lift her chin - drawing forth, rising up;  _relevé._

"You said you would help me," Pansy said, luring authority into her voice from the depths of her peerless breeding. "You said you would prepare me, to - " she stopped, swallowing. "To please him. To satisfy the king - "  _to make certain that I will not fail._

Daphne, who recognized the steps, nodded slowly.

She turned Pansy, directing her gaze to the mirror.

"Look at yourself," she said, her hands on Pansy's bare waist. "This is what the king will see."

Pansy nodded, taking stock of herself; she eyed the thickness of her raven hair, the waves that had cascaded over her breasts and the creamy softness of her skin, and tried to imagine her curves the way he would.

"Lick your lips," Daphne advised, watching her reflection. "Part them slightly" - Pansy obeyed - "and just ever so slightly - "

She gestured, and Pansy slid her tongue across her lower lip, waiting for Daphne to nod her approval. "Like that," Daphne said. "Men like it." Pansy watched her smile. "Not sure why. Perhaps they enjoy imagining what else our lips might moisten."

Pansy bit her lip, hiding a laugh, and Daphne nodded.

"Yes," she murmured. "Make him look at your lips. And then while he's looking - " she slid her fingers up, nudging Pansy's throat to angle her neck, drawing her hair over her shoulder, "remind him how much else there is to look at. To touch," she added, letting her fingers brush across Pansy's collarbone. "Let him imagine you, for a moment, before you let him in."

Pansy nodded, finding her mouth quite dry as Daphne's hands roamed over the bareness of her skin. "And then?"

"He will want you to be virginal," Daphne cautioned. "He won't want you to know  _too_  much - but if you can play the part - "

"I can," Pansy said confidently. "Show me."

Daphne smiled her approval, taking Pansy's hand and drawing the remaining curtain of hair away from her shoulders. "Run your hands over your breasts," she whispered, her fingers floating over Pansy's as she led her hand between them, "tilt your head back - "

Pansy shifted, feeling an odd tightening between her legs; she did as Daphne instructed, eyeing her reflection with fascination as she watched color bloom in her cheeks, her chest rising and falling with the quickened pace of her breath.

" - keep your eyes wide," Daphne suggested. "A man wants innocence until he's made you his. He wants just a touch of trepidation, of fear that comes of awe - all men want a play acted for him," she explained wryly, a small smile on her face. "Give it to him," she advised. "Let your eyes widen at the sight of his cock, at the muscles of his chest. Let him captivate you."

"Will he kiss me, do you think?" Pansy asked, her chest fluttering and straining at the thought. "How do I - "

Daphne released her hand, reaching up to turn Pansy's chin over her shoulder. "Softly," she instructed, and brushed her lips against Pansy's. "Just a touch," she murmured, breaking contact slowly, "as though you dare not wish for more."

"And if there is more?" Pansy prompted. "What then?"

Daphne paused, wondering, and then brought her lips to Pansy's again, applying a gentle pressure, a slow pulsing of contact that grew in certainty; a throb, a stroke of velvety lip, a strange sensation of petal-like softness that was as urgent and insistent as it was delicate and fragile.

"What else?" Pansy breathed as Daphne broke away, her voice oddly childish and demanding, wondering if Tom's kiss would feel like this; she imagined not. She imagined his lips to be firm, assertive, captivating -

"It will hurt you the first time," Daphne warned, looking slightly regretful. "There's not much I can do for you there, considering he will want to know that it was  _he_  who took your virginity. But," she said carefully, nudging Pansy's legs apart, "the more you are aroused, the easier it will be." She took Pansy's hand again, placing it between her thighs. "This," she clarified, and Pansy nodded, taking stock of the slickness between her legs. "This is what he wants, and what will help. Close your eyes if you need to," Daphne said, "think of other things, if he is not taking the time - "

"Think of other things?" Pansy interrupted, startled. "Do you?"

"Not with Theo, no," Daphne said. "But sometimes, when I'm alone - " She blushed. "I miss him at times, you know, and with only one night per week - "

"Ah," Pansy said, swallowing. "I didn't realize - "

"No, no, I wish to be here with you," Daphne said quickly, dismissing Pansy's concerns. "But for me, thinking of him can sometimes" - she hesitated, then smiled - "help."

"In any case," she continued briskly, releasing Pansy's hand, "the more aroused you are, the more he will enjoy it, and the king is not privy to your private thoughts." She stepped back, nodding at Pansy. "But be certain that  _he_  thinks you are enjoying him."

"How am I to do that?" Pansy asked. "How can I convince him I'm enjoying him if I don't know how to - " she paused, biting her lip. "If I don't know what it feels like?" she asked, the question devolving to nearly a whisper.

Daphne paused a moment, looking torn, and then stepped behind her again, taking her hand with a firm look of resolution.

"Wet your fingers," she whispered, sliding Pansy's hand to the dampness between her thighs. "Coat them - "

Pansy nodded, feeling again the tightening in her core, and then Daphne took two of her fingers, placing them on either side of the tender area between the lips of her sex.

"Slide them, like this," Daphne said, pushing Pansy's legs further apart as she moved her hand against her. "Keep moving your fingers back and forth," she whispered, letting go of Pansy's right hand to bring her left up to her breast, stroking it.

"How does it feel?" she breathed in Pansy's ear, and Pansy mumbled an incoherent response, letting her head fall back against Daphne's shoulder as her breaths started to come in pants. It was strange, and strangely transfixing, and she wondered how she had not known such a feeling were possible.

"Keep going," Daphne whispered, locking eyes with her in the mirror. Pansy, feeling a twist inside her that threatened to burst, did not look away.

"My legs are shaking," Pansy muttered, wondering if that were normal, and Daphne nodded.

"Good," Daphne said quietly. "It will start to feel unbearable after a while, like a ball of something beginning to curl up inside you - "

"It does," Pansy whimpered back, feeling a current start to rise. "And when I - when I feel it, do I - "

"Let yourself moan," Daphne suggested, and a quiet sound slipped out of Pansy that might have been one. "Perhaps you might whisper the king's name, or tell him how it feels - "

"It feels like I'm burning," Pansy gasped, desperation mounting, and she increased the speed of her hand. "It feels like an ache, it feels like - like I'm on  _fire_  - "

"Tell him that," Daphne coaxed. "Tell him you burn for him."

"Oh god," Pansy whispered, "Daphne, it - it feels - "

Something erupted inside her, the ball dissolving in molten heat, a wild detonation, and she fell back against Daphne, gasping for breath as her body fell still.

"Don't be afraid," Daphne murmured to her as she caught her breath. "It's much harder to be a wife than a lover, and harder still to be a queen." She ran her fingers through Pansy's hair again, twisting a lock around her finger. "This will be the easy part," she said with a knowing smile, "or else every whore would have a crown."

And so Pansy wore the dress, and painted the smile, and poured herself into the image of the doll she might have been -  _don't bend,_  she thought,  _don't break -_ and when the evidence of morning splintered through the castle's windowpanes, she was sitting up in bed, waiting for Daphne.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

"You are," Daphne agreed, and beckoned for her ladies.

* * *

"Are you sure," Minerva said quietly, "Are you  _positive_  this is what you want?"

"Who am I to deny a king?" Hermione asked wryly, shaking her head. "If he commands me, it hardly seems I have options."

"He's dangerous," Minerva warned flatly. "These things he procured from me - he is no small threat, this man."

"You gave them to him, then?" Hermione asked. "What did he ask for?"

"Nothing any normal person wants, I'll tell you that much," Minerva sniffed. "Nothing that was easy to come by, either, if you're anyone but me" - there was a slight smugness to her then, and Hermione nearly smiled - "so I suspect I'll be seeing his steward again fairly soon."

"I don't think that's what Severus is," Hermione said carefully. "Tom doesn't seem to treat him the way he does the others. Not like the first man," she said, thinking of how Tom had thrown Pettigrew out of the shop with a careless indifference, comparing it to the way he had tilted his head questioningly, seeking Severus' indication of satisfaction before parting the day before. "I highly doubt Severus is any small figure at court."

"I expect you're about to find out," Minerva said, looking slightly disgruntled.

"Do you think he's an ally?" Hermione asked, and Minerva's lips twisted into a thoughtful frown.

"Severus? I hardly see him as the alliance type," Minerva ruled. "But there are far worse creatures at court than he, I'd wager."

"You make it sound like I'm going into some kind of cage," Hermione said, pausing her scribbling to look up. "Believe me, Minerva, I'm going to be fine."

"I know that," Minerva said, drawing her shoulders back. "I have no doubt of it, Hermione, and I certainly don't  _fear_  for you - but," she qualified, "I certainly wouldn't wish to take your place." She stepped forward, placing her hand fondly atop Hermione's head. "You may play their games, love, and you may even win, but I wonder." Her voice trailed off, mournful and solemn. "I wonder whether you'll find yourself unrecognizable once they've spat you out."

At that, it took considerable effort for Hermione to suppress a shiver. "So it's all of them, then, that concern you," she ventured softly, trying to shake the sting of Minerva's warning from her mind. "Not just Tom?"

"Oh, he will be the  _most_  dangerous," Minerva determined darkly. "Without a doubt. The others will seek to take aim, I'm sure, but if any were to destroy you - " she cut off, clearing her throat. "I suspect it would be him," she finished, and Hermione couldn't tell if the look in her eye was fear or awe at the thought of what he was capable of.

 _Tom,_  Hermione heard herself say,  _Tom, please -_

Minerva stood, then, with a silvery quickness, pulling Hermione up with her. "Nevermind the books," she said briskly, holding Hermione tightly and gesturing with her chin. "I'll manage."

"You will," Hermione said, her voice muffled into Minerva's shoulder. "You always do."

Hermione felt her stiffen, Minerva's arms wrapping themselves even more tightly around her.

"Are you sure," Minerva began anxiously, and paused, pulling away to look at her. "Are you  _sure_  you want to go with him?"

Hermione forced a smile.

"Who am I to deny a king?" she asked again, but it was a less-than-clever sidestep; because she knew - and Minerva, whose gaze had softened in sympathy and sadness, knew it just as well - that what she'd really said was  _yes._

* * *

Pansy's wedding day passed in spurts and leaps, with drags and sprinting pulses; it seemed to her that time took on a life of its own, whirling her around in its tireless captivity.

The ceremony itself felt unbearably long but was over impossibly quickly, her eyes repeatedly darting to the side to see the smooth, placid expression on Tom's face; to wonder if he were thinking about her, about what was to come for them as he promised his unfailing love.

 _Love,_  she thought, and wondered. He said the words with ease - showed no evidence of laboring beneath his vow to cherish her - but still, there was something that she couldn't put a finger on; something about the way his blue eyes slid to hers, her breath creeping into her throat and mingling with her already threatening fears, that prompted her mother's voice in her head -

_Are we sure he will be kind to her?_

"I will," he spoke solemnly, and she, too, spoke her words of fealty, and then they were married, and  _she was his_  - though no more, and no less, than she had been when she'd first laid eyes on him. He looked at her, seeing her for what she was - truly, entirely  _his_  - and something sparked; but it was gone just as quickly, and then time leapt forward again, hurling her gracelessly in its clutches to fling her into the throne beside Tom's. She scarcely knew how she'd gotten there; only that there was a crown, now, above her, and there was the snake of his reign intertwined with the bright face of her signature flower, embroidered and branded below her.

She looked at the royal seal and shivered; it was a shiver born of half revulsion -  _a snake,_  she thought, and heard Daphne's warning,  _that amongst the snakes, the strong must be clever as well -_  and half desire, neither outweighing the other, like two sides of a shining gold coin.

There was little time to process. It was time to earn her jewels, she realized, as Tom's lords sank on bended knee before her, dragging her attention from her thoughts of what was to come to focus on that which she faced.

"Your Majesties," said Lord Lucius Malfoy, and beside him, his son, Draco, also knelt. "May you have a long and prosperous marriage."

"Lucius," Tom acknowledged, gesturing for him to rise. "Perhaps it shall be soon that we see Draco, too, in matrimony?"

"Whenever Your Majesty finds a suitable choice for him, I'm sure," Lucius returned humbly, glancing pointedly at his son.

"Your Majesty honors me, to think of my - " Draco hesitated. "Happiness," he concluded, settling uneasily on a term, as though he very much doubted such a thing went hand in hand with marriage. "When the time comes, surely Your Majesty will know I am your faithful servant."

"I do know it, and am glad of it," Tom returned graciously, but with a quick, barely perceptible motion of his hand, they were dismissed; Lucius promptly closed his mouth on what might have been a reply to smile, slowly, and back away. Pansy watched, in awe, as perhaps the two proudest men she'd ever seen were made subject to Tom's whims, no less captivated than she.

"The Malfoys," Tom murmured to her, leaning in so that she could hear him, "are very crucial allies."

"I see," Pansy whispered back, though Daphne had already explain as much. "Do you wish me to choose a family member for my ladies?"

"There are no eligible Malfoy women to speak of, or I'd have done it for you already," Tom said with a shrug, though he looked mildly pleased that she had thought to offer. "Does Lady Nott serve you well?"

Pansy wondered if the question were more with regard to  _his_  purposes, or hers. "Flawlessly," she replied, judging the distinction not worth making. "I could not have asked for better, my lord."

"I thought we agreed," he reminded her, his voice faintly amused. "Aren't you to call me Tom?"

His lips twisted slightly, and at the sight of them, Pansy thought of the feel of Daphne's kiss, wondering what  _his_  mouth might taste like.

"I thought I would wait until we are alone," she suggested quietly, trying to pour intimacy into the words; to put on the play for him that Daphne had said that he wanted.

He smiled at that, an indulgent smile, as though she were a pet that had satisfactorily performed a trick. "A thought," he agreed, nodding his head, and as his gaze flicked momentarily to  _her_  lips, she wondered if he, too, were thinking about the task that lay ahead for them. "As ladies go, do you find your household wanting?"

"Do you mean that there are more families you wish to accommodate?" Pansy asked. "I will welcome, of course, anyone whom you choose" - she paused, biting her lip - " _Tom_ ," she finished softly.

"Perhaps," he murmured thoughtfully, tilting his head, but before she could ask who he had in mind, Theo had arrived, taking his turn to greet them.

It was a series of the same - of bows, and subtle nods from Tom, the degree of approval reflected in the angle of his chin - and time slipped out from under her again. She watched her husband's hands where they rested on the arms of his throne and imagined them where Daphne's had been - where  _hers_  had been; she stared as his fingers hovered over the wood of the throne, imagining the grain to be her skin, and thought, perhaps, that maybe she was anxious for what might exist between them.

That maybe she  _longed_  for -

Her wonderings were cut short with a startling wrench as Tom's knuckles turned white, his hands tightening in anger; the room took a collective breath, a blade of silence falling over them, and Pansy knew without looking up whose name was coming next.

"Lord Henry Potter, Duke of Grimmauld," she heard the herald call, and she held her breath, her gaze settling uneasily on the unruly head of the knave himself, Henry-called-Harry.

There was half a smile on his lips, a miniscule show of defiance, as though it had been there before his name had been called and he couldn't be bothered to be rid of it for Tom's benefit. He stepped forward as expected, lowering himself to one knee -

But Pansy noted a conspicuous quickness to the motion, a lack of veneration, and when he raised his head, the smile had not faded.

"Tom," the young duke said quietly - so quietly that no one but she and her husband could have heard - and Tom grimaced, his grim displeasure souring his handsome face.

"Harry," he replied tightly, and by contrast, the duke's roguish grin crept upwards.

"Congratulations on your marriage," Harry offered spiritedly, and then turned his head to meet Pansy's eye, startling her with the way his gaze fixed intently on hers. "Majesty," he said, inclining his head, the jewel-toned green of his eyes catching the light and glinting. "Diagon has never seen a more beautiful Queen."

Pansy felt Tom's eyes on her and swallowed, put to the test. "You flatter me," she said indifferently, hoping to blur any evidence of the stirring in her chest. "Unwise, isn't it, to lavish praise so freely?"

"If I were any less sincere, I suspect it'd be unwise indeed," he agreed, a supple buoyancy to his tone. "As it is, however, I'm beholden to the power you've cast on my tongue, and that, Majesty, is the truth."

Pansy opened her mouth to respond, but seeing a flash of disapproval on Tom's face, decided to say nothing; that, if anything, seemed to entertain Harry further, and Tom finally beckoned, gesturing for him to stand.

"Your compliments are appreciated, Harry," Tom said bluntly. "But my wife has many more admirers to contend with." He made the conclusive motion again, dismissing Harry with a flick of his wrist; Pansy, to her bewilderment, had to suppress a stirring of opposition.

"A gentleman knows when he is not wanted," Harry agreed, jauntily moving to take a step back; but rather than exit as he was bade - rather than retreat, as the dance required - he spared another tiny rebellion, pausing to fix his attention on Pansy.

Harry looked directly at her, his eyes as brilliant as the gems in her gown, and passed her a smile brimming with secrets. "Perhaps another time, Your Majesty," he murmured, "when you're not so terribly burdened."

She was sure, in the moment, that he had held her gaze too long -  _the dance is all wrong with him,_  she thought, and  _what a terrible sense of rhythm_  - but he was gone before she'd decided, backing away to make room for the next of Tom's court.

In his absence, Tom's mouth had tightened. "Peverells," he muttered. "Nuisances. Thank god the line has dwindled."

"If he displeases you, can you not simply send him away?" Pansy asked carefully.

"So that he can raise an army behind my back?" Tom scoffed. "I'm not an imbecile," he snapped, and she bent her head, flinching at her misstep.

"Apologies, my lord," she whispered. "I only wished to - "

"I know," he interrupted stiffly, passing her a wary glance before slowly relaxing, as though taking stock of her remorse had soothed him somewhat. "This court is new for you," he conceded, and then confidently, "You'll learn."

She forced a nod. "Thank you," she tried to say, but no voice came from her lips, and where relief had been - and longing - fear and torment returned.

Time raced again, whizzing by, her pulse twice the pace of its usual as the time came for her to be escorted into their chambers -  _their_  chambers, she reminded herself, as husband and wife - and Daphne was freeing the coils of her hair, applying perfumed water to her neck and wrists, squeezing her hands reassuringly.

"Don't be afraid," Daphne whispered -  _don't bend,_ Pansy thought,  _don't break_  - and then Pansy was alone, and the door was opening, and then Tom stood before her.

The king; her husband;  _Tom._

He was dressed casually in a linen shirt and trousers, troublingly handsome in the dim flicker of the candle-lit room; shadows danced along the shadow of his cheek and the strike of his jaw, and he eyed her with an impossibly cool curiosity. His blue eyes slanted over her in the thin shift she wore, and she, under his gaze, felt a roaring hunger - the mark of the monster he'd made of her - tied to a stunning fear that threatened to devour her.

"Pansy," he said softly, and she rose reflexively, as though he'd yanked her. "Undress."

She forced herself to do as Daphne advised, letting the shift slide deliberately down her shoulders; she watched with gratification as Tom's gaze traveled precisely where her angled movements beckoned, and she felt a stirring of something as she moved.

 _He is mine,_  she realized,  _just as I am his._

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

_Yes, yes, yes -_

"I fear my own desires," she whispered, pairing it with a delicate step.

A smile twitched at that. "Me?" he prompted. "Is it me you want?"

_Yes, yes, yes -_

"I want to please you," she murmured back.

He was the one to take a step this time. "And you fear you won't?"

"I fear that I may be too - " she held her breath as he raised a hand, using it to nudge a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers floating along her jaw. "Too eager, my lord."

He took her face in his hands, his blue eyes scouring hers. "What did I say to call me?" he reminded her, and she wondered if he could hear her heart thudding.

"Tom," she whispered, and he lowered his head to hers, kissing her -

_Firm, assertive, captivating._

She let her lips brush across his; she was careful to let out a dainty, breathy sigh, and was rewarded when she felt him respond, his hands slipping to pull her hips against his. She raised her hands, placing them gently against his chest, and when she saw his breath hitch at that, she decided to be bolder, slipping her hands under his shirt to let her fingers trace over smooth, pebbled skin.

He was sturdy and rigid and hard, battle-worn and muscled where she was soft and delicate, and she felt the tightening inside her again, the curious tingling between her legs that rose as he tore his shirt over his head, seeming intent to press against her. He pulled her close, his eyes vacantly unfocused, and she felt his hardness press against her thigh.

 _Men are not so complicated,_  Daphne had said, and now Pansy understood; when Tom's mouth left hers to travel to her neck she permitted herself a small moan, taking careful note of his hungry response, the way he ground against her hips.

He pulled away, eyeing her, before removing his trousers, kicking them off and waiting as her eyes traveled slowly to his cock. It was strange, she thought, so foreign, so unlike anything she'd ever seen -

 _Let your eyes widen at the sight of him,_  she heard Daphne advise,  _let him captivate you -_

"You're staring," he commented, amused, and she looked up, letting her tongue slip across her lips.

"I never knew a man could look like this," she said simply.

He permitted half a smile. "Like what?"

She swallowed. "Like power incarnate," she whispered, and it was less play-acting than god-given truth; he was  _more_ , in every imaginable way, than anything she had expected.

For the first time, he looked suitably pleased with her, and settled himself on the bed. "Come here," he murmured, offering his hand, and she took it, falling back with him and letting him guide her legs on either side of his hips, positioning her so that she straddled him on the bed.

Poised above him, she felt a shiver of fear, of the words  _it will hurt you,_  and wanted for a moment to run; but then she remembered Daphne's advice, that settling her thoughts would help, and as Tom pulled her forward to scrape his teeth against her breast, she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself.

A mistake - she tried not to shudder -

But the first thing that leapt to her vision was  _green_.

Those jewel-toned eyes, the hint of mischief, the way he so thoroughly distorted the dance she'd been born for;  _Henry-called-Harry,_  the knave himself - the way he'd held her gaze, intent to make her  _see -_

Her better judgment roared. Her body sang.

She felt Tom's breath catch with surprise as he slipped his hand between her legs, his fingers sliding easily across the slickness at her entrance. A sound slipped out from his throat; a hum of satisfaction like a smothered, mocking chuckle, and then -

"You really are eager, aren't you?"

She said nothing, holding her breath.

"Very well," he murmured, moving her hips to angle his cock at her entrance and then sliding her, slowly, down onto the shaft of it, watching her face with fascination as she tried desperately to hide the pain.

"Ride me," he commanded, the words low but inescapable as he lifted his hips, and she closed her eyes and moved to obey. She rocked slowly until he, impatient, took hold of her waist, directing her, an urgency displaying itself on his features that she watched - transfixed - as the searing pain of his intrusion eventually molted to a torturous, mounting blaze.

It wasn't the same as it had been with the ease of her hand and the safety of Daphne's softness; it was rough and hasty and carnal, and when she whispered that she burned for him, she meant it, the frenzied, frenetic flame that ripped through her insides pouring out from her lips in a gasp.

She stared at him, at her husband, at  _Tom_ ; at the way his mouth fell open and he gritted his teeth for  _more,_  and she slid and she moved and she danced and she  _tried,_ and she tried and she  _tried -_

But even as Tom's head fell back, a look of kingly rapture on his face, and her first wifely duty was done - and  _won_  - her guilty mind would not let her forget -

That behind closed eyes, the first thing she'd seen had been  _green._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Dedicated to oblivionbaby, who I made wait far too long for this update!
> 
> As a note, this is the first story I'm writing where the sexual component is fairly crucial to understanding the plot and its characters. (It's always relevant to the relationship, in my view, but in this case, it's especially telling). In this world, the sexual scenes will reveal a lot about power dynamics between characters. I say this as a warning, because you should expect to find more sexual scenes than you might encounter in my other work.


	4. Your Majesty, Reprise

**Chapter 4: Your Majesty, Reprise**

"Lady Lavender Brown," Daphne announced, gesturing, and the dainty blonde woman slipped back into a low curtsy.

"Your Majesty," Lavender said reverently, her voice hushed, and Pansy flashed Daphne a questioning glance.

 _Loyalist,_ Daphne mouthed, and Pansy nodded her acknowledgement, gesturing for Lavender to rise.

"Lady Lavender," Pansy began, inclining her head. "Is it your wish to be part of my household?"

"Oh, certainly, Your Majesty," Lavender returned eagerly, relaxing into conversation. Pansy could see that the girl was lively and vivacious, and she was not displeased; a sullen piece of her rejoiced, too, at discovering upon further inspection that the blonde woman before her was not _quite_ beautiful enough to be considered dangerous. "I would be honored, Your Majesty - as would my family - by your favor."

"You mean the King's favor," Pansy corrected sharply, her gaze traveling warily to where Severus stood at the back of the room. The man did not appear to be paying attention to the topic of conversation, but Pansy guardedly suspected him of never being any less than perfectly attuned to the context of his surroundings.

"Yes, of course," Lavender amended quickly. "Certainly, the King's favor above all."

Pansy, finding Lavender to be pleasant enough, looked up at Daphne, who gave a tiny shrug of judgment; _suitable_ , she mouthed, and Pansy looked back at Lavender.

"Do you dance, Lady Lavender?" Pansy asked casually, and the blonde flashed her a broad smile.

"Not nearly so well as you, Your Majesty," she said, her lashes fluttering as she glanced down with a delicate, doll-like humility, "but I _do_ love it. The merriment at court is unlike any other," she added, with an eager sense of thrill. "To be a member, and to serve a Queen as famously captivating as yourself" - Pansy made a face at Daphne, who hid a smile - "would be beyond that of my wildest fantasies - "

" _Beyond_ your fantasies?" Pansy interrupted, leaning forward in her seat. "Why, Lady Lavender? Do you not consider yourself deserving of a place among my ladies?"

Lavender frowned, caught between steps. "I," she began, looking puzzled, "I only meant to say that - "

"I will have the finest ladies in my household," Pansy informed her, "as I'm sure you would expect, and Lady Nott tells me you are one such contender." She paused, watching for Lavender's reaction. "Do you disagree with her assertion?"

Behind Lavender, Daphne smiled. _Another lesson,_ Daphne had said. _Be sure your favor is not too easily won, or no one will find it worth pursuing._

"No - no," Lavender stammered, looking as though she might have toppled backwards from the sheer force of her surprise. "I - "

"Coquetry is for court, Lady Lavender, but between us, I will have candor," Pansy said simply.

She glanced up then, feeling eyes on her across the room, and was surprised to find that it was Severus regarding her intently with his narrowed, darkened stare; after a moment's pause, she refocused her attention on Lavender, nudging aside the question of _what_ , exactly, had caught his curiosity.

"Lady Nott has already determined your blood to be suitable, and I will not waste my time bothering to disagree," Pansy continued. "If I'm to have you close to me, however," she qualified carefully, "and if you are to be considered favored in my charge, I require a certain . . . frankness. At least in private."

Across the room, Severus shifted, still eyeing her closely.

"For example," Pansy supplied, "I require a woman of seriousness, who understands her place. Silliness will not be tolerated."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Lavender said, nodding slowly.

"I require virtue, of course," she added, and Lavender nodded enthusiastically - knowing, as Pansy had always known, that such a thing was not merely asked of her, but essential to her success - "and attentiveness, and a brain under those lovely curls," Pansy finished, letting her gaze flick over the top of Lavender's head. "Do you understand?"

They eyed each other a moment; _I want ownership of your ears,_ Pansy had instructed silently, _and I demand your loyalty, and should anything cross the former to upset the latter -_

Comprehension flickered in the blonde's bright eyes.

"I understand," Lavender said, and there was a deferential quality to her tone that prompted Pansy to relax back in her chair, feeling satisfied that she'd been heard.

"Well, then," Pansy murmured, lightly tapping her fingers against the arm of her chair, "are you ready to begin now, or do you have affairs to attend to?"

"I am ready," Lavender declared, a jubilance returning to her porcelain features at the admission of her approval. "I can begin at once, Your Majesty."

"Excellent," Pansy ruled, nodding. "Severus will direct you to your new chambers, then - "

"Actually, Majesty," Severus interrupted, stepping forward into a curt, obligatory bow, "there is one more candidate to attend to. Perhaps Lady Nott can assist Lady Brown in my stead?"

Pansy's heart lurched; across the room, she saw Daphne pause mid-step.

The words had been _phrased_ like a question, but what had been warmly disguised as suggestion was, in truth, decidedly not. It was understood that any word Severus spoke, whether it conformed to protocol or not, was accompanied by a compulsory quality that was nearly as weighty as if it had come directly from Tom's lips, and there was no option of refusal. Daphne, whose brow furrowed with disapproval, glanced questioningly at Pansy - but they both knew there was nothing to be done.

Pansy remembered, then - helplessly - the word that had slipped from Tom's tongue; the careless _perhaps_ at the thought that maybe he had someone else whose presence he required.

She shook herself free of the concept, swallowing. Her husband could not be tired of her yet, surely - _surely_ she had not failed yet?

 _Don't bend,_ she reminded herself firmly, fighting a shiver of apprehension. _Don't break_ -

"Of course," Pansy managed, clearing her throat and sitting up. "Lady Nott, you will show Lady Lavender to her rooms, then?"

A wince pulled at Daphne's lovely face - she, like Pansy, could clearly see that something was amiss - but she nodded, smoothing her skirt and gesturing for Lavender to follow.

"Come," Daphne said briskly, as though leading a trail of ducklings, and Lavender, careful not to turn her back on Pansy, consented to follow, both ladies not turning until they had exited the door.

Pansy took a moment to collect herself - passing off a strike of fear as a breath of aristocracy; as though Severus, in his inferiority, could wait for her to grant him her attention - and then turned, gesturing for him.

"You have someone?" she offered, and he nodded.

"Lady Hermione Granger," he supplied, and Pansy thought she caught the slightest twitch; a tiny smack of guilt.

"Who vouches for her?" Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Severus lowered his chin, a small concession, meant to counteract what would almost certainly be a lie. "She is a Loyalist, Your Majesty," he said simply. "She is to be placed among your ladies, as with any other of her" - he paused, and Pansy caught the flicker of a muscle tensing around his jaw - "stature."

"I've not heard the name Granger before," Pansy said, fighting the sulky edge that entered her voice. "Does her family not - "

"Majesty," Severus cut in quickly, and Pansy's grip on the narrow arm of her chair tightened at the interruption. "She is worthy of your service."

"By whose standards?" Pansy countered breathlessly, fearing his answer; _not yet,_ she pleaded, _surely not yet -_

But Severus, eyes downcast, said nothing, and the omission was answer enough: _The King's, of course._

Pansy's lips parted helplessly, a shard of her tattered pride seeming to vacate her soul in a sigh.

"Send her in," she conceded, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.

* * *

"I don't see why I'm supposed to pretend," Hermione insisted, feeling foolish as she fussed with the heavy, uncomfortable gown she'd been given. "I already _told_ Tom - "

"Don't," Severus warned, shuddering at the sound of the King's name. "Your circumstances at court are . . . unusual," he reminded her sharply. "The familiarity he has afforded you in private no longer exists."

Hermione felt a wretched lurch at that; the horrible feeling that she'd somehow been tricked.

"This life does not interest me," Hermione muttered. "This _court_ does not interest me. I'm not here to grovel at anyone's feet - and had I _known_ it would come to this - "

"Don't be foolish," Severus snapped. "You must have known."

She heard Minerva's voice in her head; _are you sure?_

_Are you sure?_

She said nothing. When she'd made her decision, it had amounted to nothing more than the choice between life with Tom and life without. Now, in the light of day, it hardly felt so simple.

"You wished him to teach you what he knows," Severus reminded her sharply. "Such a thing is more than a privilege - more than an _honor,_ even." He glanced at her. "Sacrifice, then, is required on your part."

"Sacrifice," Hermione said stiffly. "And what does _he_ sacrifice, then?"

"That is not the way of the world, Hermione," Severus informed her, oozing with condescension as he eyed her disapprovingly. "It is not _his_ job to bend to your will, nor will it be the Queen's - "

Hermione stiffened at the mention of her. The Queen -

Tom's _wife_.

"I'm not here to be a toy for Tom's entertainment," Hermione determined brusquely. "I will not simply dance for his wife like some kind of - "

"You _will_ ," Severus cut in tartly. "You will dance when she says dance, you will jump when she says jump, and you will do it with a smile on your face - "

"Or else what?" Hermione demanded, coming to a sudden halt. "How will you punish me if I fail to satisfy as the Queen's lapdog?"

"It won't be _me_ who does the punishing," Severus cautioned, his voice low and pulsing with warning. "And if such a concession was never your intent, you have made a fool of yourself indeed by agreeing, Hermione."

He wasn't wrong; and _that_ , in itself, was more irksome than anything.

"I warned him," Hermione said, clenching a fist. "I _told_ him I wouldn't come to be his - " She paused, flinching. "I told him I wouldn't follow him only to serve his _whims_ \- "

"Whatever decisions you have made with him," Severus interrupted, "and whatever he offered to entice you - "

" _Entice_ me?" Hermione gritted out, coldly furious with the implication. "Haven't I already said this isn't about - "

"It is not my business to understand your motivations, whatever they may be," Severus cut in irritably. "Whatever deal was struck between the two of you is none of my concern. What _is_ my concern is that you - and whatever it is that Tom judged necessary from your presence," he added, giving her a cautioning look, as if to say _whatever it is_ , _don't tell_ \- "do not prompt any sort of tension within his court." He glanced sternly at her. "You will not be the ruin of his kingdom, however badly he wants you, and whatever it is that he wants you _for_." He gestured ahead, prompting for her to continue walking. "Am I clear?"

She eyed the corridor ahead; the path to _her_ \- the Queen, Tom's _wife_ \- and paused, considering the effort it would take and wondering if the steps themselves were worth it.

It had been Tom who'd asked, hadn't it? _I would put you above all others,_ she heard him say; _I would worship you above all else._

 _Above all else,_ she thought, and realized -

"I want to see him," Hermione said suddenly. "I want to see him, and you will arrange it, or else I refuse."

Severus' expression faltered and she straightened, finding her footing.

"I _will_ see him," she repeated firmly, catching the flicker in Severus' eye that told her - triumphantly - that whatever toy she was, she was not one he could afford to cast aside. "Or else he won't have me."

 _Power,_ she thought, recognizing the glimmer of defeat in Severus' glance, an echo of the way Tom had leaned towards her; _I've been thinking about you._

 _You will bend to me_ , she thought, tasting victory as she stared defiantly at Severus, _because you have seen your King do the same._

"He has already asked that I arrange it," Severus said carefully. "You're to see him after you've met with the Queen." He paused, pursing his lips slowly. "Am I to assume you will meet with her, then?"

She saw fear in his eyes at that, at the prospect that she might say no, and marveled. It had not been her demand _itself_ that had worried him, she realized, but the thought that she knew her own influence; that she could taste her own power enough to have asked. She could turn, then, she could leave, and others would crumble in her wake; but still -

 _I've been thinking about you,_ she heard Tom say, and succumbed to a violent shiver.

"Fine," she ruled, fighting a grimace. "I'll meet with your Queen, then."

* * *

She didn't know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't this.

"Your Majesty," Severus said, bowing. "Lady Hermione Granger."

Pansy, whose neck was stiff from carrying the burden of her unbending pride, hid her shaking hand beneath the fashionably wide sleeve of her gown, striving to remain expressionless.

The woman before her was . . . nothing. Largely unremarkable. Even doe-eyed Lavender, with her vivacious blue eyes and fashionably golden hair, had been a more magnetic figure, at least within the expectations of the court. This woman, who was exceedingly petite - narrow-hipped, relatively flat-chested, the smallness of her waist being perhaps the most appealing thing about her - had chestnut brown hair and an intriguingly warm complexion, an unfashionable olive tone in a world of unfailing porcelain.

Most intriguingly, of course, were her eyes.

Which Pansy could see -

Because the woman wasn't looking down _as she should have done_.

Severus coughed, gesturing, and the woman - Lady Hermione, though Pansy was beginning to doubt the application of the title _lady_ \- glanced at him, recognizing that she was meant to have dropped into a curtsy. She bent slowly, but her eyes - golden brown, Pansy noted, and startlingly unyielding - remained fixed on Pansy's face.

Pansy felt her own eyes narrow.

"Lady Hermione," Pansy murmured, fighting the bitterness that threatened to creep into her tone. "It is your wish to join my household?"

Hermione tilted her head just slightly; considering Pansy from a new angle. The pause was nothing short of an insult.

"I do," she said quietly.

Pansy shifted in her seat, staring at her. "Why?" she asked sharply. "Or perhaps," she said, acting on impulse and rising to her feet, " _you_ can tell me why," she suggested, glancing challengingly at Severus.

He inclined his head. "Majesty," he murmured. "Lady Hermione's" - he swallowed; _lie,_ Pansy thought furiously - "mother was a close friend of the King's. Lady Hermione herself is known to be quite brilliant," he added, as though this were somehow significant. Pansy's gaze slipped surreptitiously to Hermione, whose expression had not changed at the application of praise. "If I may, your Majesty," Severus continued, his voice as calculated and slippery as ever, "you did mention you were looking for a sense of candor among your ladies?"

 _Ah_ , she thought. _So that was why he was listening; to use my words against me._

"Is that what you can offer me, then?" Pansy asked, taking three steps to land herself face to face with Hermione, gratified by the knowledge that she was taller, more impressive, even without the beneficial height of her crown. "Candor?"

"Do you wish it?" Hermione asked, her eyes flashing.

It was not a question as it should have been; it was not _if it pleases you,_ as she should have said, nor was it _as you wish_. It was, in sum, a brazen challenge of authority -

_Do you wish it?_

Hermione stared at her. Pansy stared back.

 _Do you wish it,_ Hermione had asked, but what she'd intended was _do you wish to challenge me?_

So it wasn't a dance the woman wanted, then; it was a fight.

"I do," Pansy said, leaning into the subtext and closing the distance to murmur quietly, so that they would not be overheard. "Tell me, Hermione - what, then, does my husband want with you?"

* * *

She was more beautiful than Hermione had expected.

Sharper, too. A harsher beauty.

Her hair was nearly raven black, the darkness of it contrasted perfectly against a richly jeweled gown, set off by a crown that sparkled tellingly in the room - as if to remind Hermione who it was, _precisely,_ that was responsible for light.

Funny, really, that light would even occur to her, Hermione thought; the Queen - Pansy, they said, though that seemed an immensely frivolous name for such a rigid presence - was _dark_ in so many ways, her gaze a condescending shadow, her eyes so richly mahogany that Hermione could not imagine how this woman could have ever been meant for anything but royalty. She looked as though she'd been birthed from wealth, crafted from privilege, and then blended comfortably into the backdrop of her world, sculpted and painted from the very materials that had sprouted from within it.

But there was something else, too, Hermione realized, watching Pansy step closer, purposefully invading her space. There was something in that rich darkness that shouted - that _quaked_ \- and that was something she could use.

Hermione nearly smiled when she realized - this Queen was _scared._

"Tell me, Hermione," Pansy murmured, leaning towards her, "what, then, does my husband want with you?"

 _You think I'll take him from you,_ Hermione realized, and wanted desperately to laugh. _You, with your crown and your blood and your jewels, you think that I -_

"Answer me," the Queen snapped quietly, her dark eyes flashing. "You wish a place beside me, you wish the privilege of my confidence - so tell me," she repeated, as Hermione caught the motion of her tucking a clenched fist beneath a richly embroidered sleeve, "what is it he wants with you?"

 _Fine,_ Hermione thought, eyeing her. _You want a game?_

"Am I to know the wishes of the King?" Hermione countered, the exchange scarcely occurring above the volume of a breath. "Surely neither you nor I could count ourselves among the privileged who could claim to speculate."

The Queen's lips tightened angrily.

"You _are_ clever, aren't you?" Pansy said, beginning to walk a slow circle around Hermione; she looked away, jaw clenched, but the motion was inconceivably primal, like a vulture stalking her prey. "Is that it, then?" she asked softly. "Your cleverness? Is there not" - she paused, her eyes flicking pointedly over Hermione's form - "anything _else_ you might be offering him?"

Hermione fought a grimace. _Come on, your Majesty,_ she thought to taunt; _surely_ _you can do better than that._

"As I've said," Hermione began carefully, "I would never pretend to understand the wishes of the King. But," she qualified, lowering her voice to ensure the words were audible only to Pansy, despite Severus' obvious strain to overhear, "I'm certainly clever enough to know you don't have a choice," she finished.

At that, the Queen promptly stopped her predatory pacing, turning to look at her.

 _You think I'll submit quietly,_ Hermione thought, staring back. _I won't._

Pansy straightened; message received.

"You know," the Queen murmured back, and again Severus leaned forward, but the words were for Hermione's ear only, "someone once taught me a very important lesson about life at court."

Hermione waited, saying nothing.

"Keep your friends close," Pansy remarked, the words so faint and doused with feigned sweetness that they were nearly inaudible, "but never take your eyes off your enemies."

Hermione forced a smile.

* * *

She had been wrong the first time, Pansy realized, in thinking the other woman unremarkable. She slowly circled Hermione, affording her the second glance that she should never have offered otherwise; she caught the slightest twitch in the lesser woman's shoulders and privately struggled not to marvel, watching every ounce of will Hermione possessed as it prevented her from turning around, stopping her from drawing forth and striking back.

It wasn't until then that Pansy saw it; there was a faint disruption, yes, and _that_ was how she caught the stillness in Hermione where another woman might have - _should have_ , Pansy thought angrily - resigned herself to bend. It was in the cool calculation, in the smoothness of her features, that Pansy realized with a stinging surge of certainty that Hermione - whoever she was, and whatever she certainly _wasn't_ \- was not unremarkable at all.

If Lavender, in her eager prettiness, had not posed any danger, Hermione was her opposite. Hermione was no conventional beauty; that was for certain. She was severely lacking the type of consummate prettiness that Daphne, for example, possessed, with every feature so flawless in its curation that no fool would dare to challenge it. But even without it, there was something to her. Something dangerous.

 _Something to keep a close watch over,_ Pansy thought.

" _Lady_ Hermione," Pansy said abruptly, fighting the bitterness that came with affording her any respect and taking a step back to resume her seat, "I accept your request to join my household."

She watched the other woman grimace at that, and fought an unexpected rush of pleasure. _Oh yes,_ Pansy thought, _and never forget it; that it may be the King who wants you -_ she swallowed at that, ignoring the pain in her chest - _but it's my whims you'll have to serve._

"Excellent," Severus determined, looking relieved as he stepped forward. "I can have her settled, then, and have Lady Nott see to her - "

"Yes, you will," Pansy cut in sourly, standing to cut him off mid-sentence. It was one thing, she thought, for him to force her to entertain the necessity for the charade; entirely _another_ to demand that she endure it. Her authority remained, and she clung to it.

Severus, who recognized her intent to exit, sank instantly into a bow; at a small cough from him, Hermione also knelt, lowering herself into an unsteady curtsy.

It was a blessed return to normalcy; a reprieve from the abomination that had been Hermione's disastrous performance, and a relief from the entire disgrace of her presence. Pansy rapidly moved to exit, desperate to remove herself from the trials that remained in the room, but paused as the edge of her gown brushed the fabric of Hermione's, the subtle rustle prompting her to look down.

The woman's head was finally bent, Pansy noted, and her eyes finally downcast as she paid homage on her knees; _good,_ Pansy thought vigorously, and basked.

"Be certain that you remember what that feels like," she whispered to Hermione, luxuriating victoriously in the other woman's quiet fury; and then she lifted her chin, smiling to Severus before sweeping regally out of the room.

* * *

Hermione did not move until Pansy had left, feeling anger tighten and coil, snarling, within the pit of her stomach; rising up like bile in her throat.

"Do you wish to see him now, or after dinner?" Severus asked, his voice conspicuously neutral as he addressed her from the corner of the room.

 _Tom,_ Hermione thought, remembering, _and power -_

"Now," she said stiffly, and forced herself to rise.

* * *

"I want her gone," Pansy raged, shut up in her quarters. "Whatever it is he wants her for, I want her _gone_ \- "

"I can't do anything," Daphne reminded her, her eyes downcast. "You know I can't, and neither can you."

"What can I do, then?" Pansy pleaded desperately, throwing herself down in her anger, clawing mindlessly at her aching chest as she sank powerlessly to the floor. "What can I _do_?"

_What if I fail, what if I fail, what if I fail -_

Daphne bent beside her, taking both her hands.

"Win," Daphne whispered. "Or else simply survive."

 _Don't bend,_ she begged, _don't break -_

"Get up, your Majesty," Daphne said, offering her a hand, and Pansy swallowed, lurching to her feet -

Drawing forth, rising up; _relevé._

* * *

She didn't know what to expect when she opened the heavy wooden door, but it certainly wasn't this.

"Tom," Hermione ventured, barely managing the sound of his name from the weariness of her tongue, and he looked up, a flicker of recognition appearing on his face as he met her eye.

She fought a shudder at the sight of him; he was more informal than she had ever seen him, dressed in a set of dark trousers and a thin ivory shirt, a haze of helpless distraction settling into focus in the richness of his gaze, as though he had been interrupted in the midst of a thought.

 _Power,_ she thought, eyeing the line of his chest; _me and my power, you and your throne, we are not ourselves without them -_

"Hermione," he said, beckoning, and she stepped towards him, reaching out - _Tom,_ she thought, missing and wanting and needing; _Tom, please_ -

He shifted quickly, a surge of something forcing itself from his fingertips and nearly singeing the curve of her cheek; she darted to the side, breathless, and watched him smile.

She raised a hand, pressing a finger to the stinging of her skin. "What is this?" she demanded, and he lifted a hand again -

She ducked as he motioned sharply, raising a blade from the counter beside her and shifting it, pointing it at where her chest had been. As he motioned again, aiming the hilt, she dropped quickly to the floor, the cold stone biting cruelly at her hands.

"Get up," he instructed, his voice tinged with an eerie, metallic humor as he chuckled. "This isn't how I want you to fight back."

"Fight _back_?" she asked, staggering to her feet. "What do you _mean_ \- "

She stumbled as the earth shook beneath her feet, the rumble of his laughter echoing within the walls of the room. _Why the dungeons,_ she had asked, _why this room?_ and Severus had not answered; but now she understood.

"Stop," she gritted out, scrambling backwards and half crawling away, "you haven't _taught_ me anything - "

"I'm teaching you right now," he corrected her, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he stalked towards her. "I'm teaching you" - he paused, forcing his arm out horizontally as his palm leveled with the floor, and she felt herself slide, as though the very minerals beneath her feet had consented to part - "how to find the piece of you that will _fight back._ "

"What is this," she gasped, as his hand moved again and she was sharply jolted upright. "Is this some kind of - _show_ ," she stammered, "something to - to prove to me - "

"I don't need to _prove_ anything," he said forcefully, thrusting both palms towards her and growling with frustration as she yelped, her wrists pinned to the wall behind her by the twisted threads of his will. "This isn't what I _want_ \- "

"What _do_ you want, then?" she shouted, struggling against his hold as he stood face to face with her, her arms forced painfully above her head. "What is it you want from me?"

She watched the line of his lips tighten in displeasure and cursed him, fighting tears; cursed him for what he'd put her through, cursed herself more for coming, cursed the world for blessing him so richly, for putting her at his mercy, for giving him to _someone else_ -

He closed the space between them, his chest against hers, and wrapped his fingers tightly around her wrists, replacing the cuffs of his magic with the iron grip of his hands.

"What do you feel?" he demanded, sliding one hand down to press against the inside of her arm. "Tell me."

She shifted against him and felt a flame at her core; _pity,_ she heard her father say, _wasted,_ she heard, _do you think us fools -_

 _A waste_ , she heard Tom say in her ear, _that the crown has not been made that would sit upon your head -_

"Rage," she whispered, feeling it curl beneath her fingers.

"Good," he murmured, his breath cool against the flame of her cheek. "What else?"

"Madness," she confessed, her voice breaking. "Violence, obsession - "

_Passion and blood and bone -_

"You're not mad," he said sharply. "These things you feel - " he pressed himself against her, his hips against hers. "They're where your power comes from." His lips were near her ear now, his words a low hiss that seeped in through her skin. "What else?"

"Hatred," she spat, feeling something begin to crack beneath the surface, "bitterness and envy. Loathing, and - "

She stopped, choking on the word, and he grabbed her chin with one hand, turning her to face him.

"Say it," he whispered, his blue eyes flashing as his gaze scraped desperately over her face. "Say it, Hermione - "

"Hunger," she forced out, letting him devour her. _Rage and fury and -_ " _Want,_ " she confessed miserably, wondering if he _would_ -

"Good," he murmured, his lips curling into a smile. "Now" - he released her, and she gasped - " _fight back."_

He made a slicing movement with the blade of his hand and she instinctively thrust out an arm, palm up, as she had done before; she watched a slow, icy glaze form along the shape of her fingers and stared as it met the space between them, a ripple appearing and glittering, teasing them both with a curl and a whisper before vanishing, smoothing itself into the crispness of the air.

Silence floated between them, and then -

"Look," Tom said softly, gesturing, and she understood.

_Look how flawlessly we join._

She wanted to run to him; she wanted to dig her nails into his skin, into the fiber of his being, to force him to soothe the monster he'd made of her, or else be consumed by the blaze of it as she stood lit atop the pyre, flames licking as she burned for him -

She forced her gaze away, seeing her own demise in the bow of his lips; in the motion of his breath. She drew the truth of them - the impossibility of what they were - into the chambers of her lungs, letting the corrosion fester.

"You asked if I knew how to conjure," she said, reaching for her voice. "Or charm - "

For a moment, at her insistence on reality, he almost flinched. "Hermione," he whispered, reaching for her, desperate to prolong the moment; _look_ , he said, _look at how we fit -_

 _Imagine,_ he called to her, luring her; _imagine if you -_

_If I -_

_If we -_

"Your wife," Hermione said stiffly, "has accepted me into her household."

Tom blinked, adjusting to the dissipating rapture.

"My wife," he repeated, as though he could not remember who she was.

"The Queen," Hermione confirmed briskly. "The woman I now serve."

"No," Tom said, his voice a slow, unsteady rasp. "No, you don't serve her - "

"I do," Hermione corrected sharply, watching him wince as he recognized the truth of what he'd done. "And if you do not intend to teach me," she added, "if your intent is not to do as you've promised - "

"I've said that I will, and I will," he interrupted, daring her to refuse him.

"Good," Hermione said firmly, gathering the shattered pieces - the injustices and wrongs, the way _he_ _belonged to someone else_ \- and pouring them into her vault of secrets. "Teach me, then."

"Hermione," he said again, taking a step towards her.

_I would put you above all others -_

"Don't," she warned.

_I would worship you above all else -_

"Would you deny a king?" he asked, his eyes full of longing and devastation and _her,_ as though he could not look away.

She mimicked his slicing motion, forcing him to jump back, unprepared, as a surge of power sang through the depths of her veins, parting the air between them.

"You will not own me," she whispered, and his eyes flashed.

"I will," he said, his power twisting between them, and the ripple began anew. "I will have you."

She felt herself smile. _Good, then,_ she welcomed, both a challenge and a promise. _Try to possess me._

_I will wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Dedicated to Superflare! Thank you for finding things interesting.


	5. See Things Clearly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: TW - a very brief moment of dubious sexual consent.

**Chapter 5: See Things Clearly**

They were to perform a dance; a play of sorts. _Different from the usual, in that everyone involved would agree to be playing_ , Pansy thought sullenly, already struggling not to let her mask of regal authority slip. She let her eyes travel unhappily to where Lavender and Hermione were standing near each other in the ballroom waiting to be placed and fought a surge of stinging revulsion, hoping the burn in her chest hadn't resonated to her cheeks.

"Where did you say you were from again?" Pansy heard Lavender ask innocently.

Hermione, caught without an acceptable answer, cleared her throat. "North," she provided ambiguously.

"Her Majesty was born in the Borderlands," Lavender commented, her clear, bell-like voice carefully neutral. "Near there, perhaps?"

"Not _so_ far north," Hermione returned evenly, not meeting Lavender's eye.

 _Yes,_ Pansy thought, fighting a smile from afar at how even geography served to fortify her point. _However you imagine it,_ she promised Hermione, _I'll always be above you._

Because Hermione Granger was nothing, of course, and _no one_ , and it couldn't have been more obvious; the woman seemed to lack every necessary instinct that, had she _truly_ borne the title 'lady' since birth, would have been bred into the very marrow of her bones. Hermione was sharp, Pansy hated to admit, and quick, and so she had learned over time - even over a matter of days - to subtly hide her missteps; but her gaze remained far more keen and attentive than was considered fashionable, particularly when it should have been lowered and humbled.

As if she could feel Pansy's derision from across the room, Hermione looked up, catching Pansy's fleeting smile at her expense; she seemed to bristle, grasping the unspoken insult.

"Closer to Grimmauld, actually," Hermione murmured back to Lavender, her eyes still on Pansy. "If I were to be precise."

From the far corner of the room, Daphne, who had been adjusting the starting position for Lady Hannah Abbott, stiffened abruptly at Hermione's ill-advised reference. Pansy's other ladies, all of whom had previously been rustling about and clucking with mindless chatter, surrendered themselves to a blanket of stunned silence, following Daphne's lead.

"Grimmauld?" Lavender echoed, her eyes widening as she leaned towards Hermione. "But surely," she said insistently, " _surely_ you're not a Pever- "

"Ladies," Daphne barked sharply, clapping her hands briskly and abandoning Hannah to determine her footing for herself, "perhaps we can focus on the dance at hand?" She glanced over at Pansy, arching one brow for confirmation. "Surely Her Majesty would not wish for idle gossip."

"I would not, no," Pansy agreed briskly, waving a hand. "If you would, please, continue, Lady Lavender?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, of course," Lavender breathed, sinking into a low curtsy. "Apologies."

Pansy nodded - _nevermind,_ she said wordlessly, _but watch your step -_ and turned; but just as she did, she caught a glimpse from her periphery as a faint, nearly imperceptible smile snuck its way across Hermione's lips, a look of whispered triumph on her face that dealt Pansy an instant blow of frustration.

The reference to Harry must have been drawn intentionally, Pansy realized, and she kicked herself furiously for missing it. The mention of Grimmauld - and subsequently, of Harry himself, in addition to the Peverells - was a subject of such hasty avoidance that surely no one would question it at the risk of displeasing Tom - _or_ , Pansy noted, catching Severus' dark form in the doorway, _displeasing any of his tireless sets of ears -_ and so Hermione had gotten precisely what she'd wanted -

Nobody would be fool enough to ask twice.

 _Fine,_ Pansy thought, scowling in Hermione's direction. _You can have this one, but you can't fool them forever -_

"Run it again," Daphne called, gesturing to the dancers around the room. "Majesty, do you wish to observe this time?" she asked, glancing warmly at Pansy.

"I would," Pansy agreed, already secure in her own steps. She strode quickly to the front of the room, permitting Daphne to find her place as the musicians poised themselves to bow, and forced herself to smile benevolently at her ladies before nodding for them to start.

The choreography was beautiful; that much was obvious from the start, despite Pansy's rapidly souring mood. The production was simple but lovely, and the costumes - pale white and feathered - would certainly suit. The ladies themselves were no less elegant than the swans they were playing, the motions carrying from their frames to the tips of their fingers with careful, stunning sweeps; even Hermione, who had been unsteady at the start, seemed to have grasped the necessary precision of her movements.

Pansy watched as Hermione carefully ran through the steps, taking her place and hitting her poses with an effort that was perhaps overly conscious, but delicately so; _yes,_ Pansy thought, watching the arch in her back and the line of her neck, _she's gotten much better._

Pansy's heart sank at that; twisted and wrenched.

 _She's gotten much better,_ Pansy thought - the realization repeating itself, over and over, beating at her relentlessly until she thought she might sob - _because_ _someone's been teaching her._

* * *

"A dance," Hermione muttered, watching Tom work; he was brewing something, using one of the materials Minerva had procured for him. _Eye of newt_ , she read on the container, and fought a shudder. "Ridiculous," she continued, nudging the glass container aside. "As if there aren't more useful things to do."

"Ah, it _seems_ ridiculous, doesn't it," Tom agreed, leaning over to sprinkle a dusty looking powder into the concoction, nodding his satisfaction as the glassy top layer of liquid blossomed to a faint lilac vapor. "But it keeps the court happy. And more importantly," he added, wiping a hand on a linen before leaning over to lift her chin slightly, coaxing the sulk out of her posture, "it _distracts_ them."

"From what?" Hermione asked, shaking her head as she slowly removed herself from his grasp. "From _you_?" she accused.

"Yes and no," Tom agreed, chuckling a little. "Regardless, tradition is important to them - particularly the ones who support me."

"The Loyalists," Hermione murmured, nodding her understanding. "Odd, really, that _you_ would have their support."

"They're easy to please," Tom said, shrugging. "They long for the old ways."

"The old ways?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"The Peverell kings were far too soft," Tom explained, looking repulsed at the mere mention of the family. "The Loyalists like their leaders militant. They, unlike some people," he added, flashing his teeth as he smiled knowingly at her, "prefer to have an overlord who's actually worth following."

"Why?" Hermione asked, shaking her head. "Do they long for tyranny?"

"The opposite," Tom replied crisply, brushing a dark wave from his forehead. "A strong King makes it far less likely that a someone else will take the throne by force."

"Someone like you, you mean," Hermione muttered, and he smiled again.

"Yes," he confirmed. "The trouble with soft Peverell kings, Hermione," he informed her, leaning intimately into the sound of her name, "is that they tend to be easily killed by strong Gaunt ones."

Hermione thought of his symbol - of the snake reared to strike - and suppressed a shiver. He watched her for a moment, gauging her reaction, and then turned back to his draught, eyeing it. "Lacewing," he murmured to himself, frowning. "It's missing something."

"But why bother with the dances at all, then, and the plays," Hermione insisted, handing him the jar of lacewing flies that sat hear her elbow as he gestured to them. "Why not just - "

"Kill them all?" Tom prompted, laughing. "Well, my hungry little lioness, I sometimes get tired." She made a face at that, and he continued, shaking his head. "Besides, far be it from me to prevent my lords from a moment of merriment, don't you think?"

"A moment of ogling, you mean," Hermione grumbled, and Tom slowly set down the stirrer, turning his attention away from the draught he was producing to stare curiously at the sullen look on her face.

"Come," he said after a moment, gesturing for her to follow. She sighed, indulging him, and he took a few steps before reaching out, grasping the tips of her fingers and leading her to the open floor of the room before pulling her in, resting one hand on her waist. "If I can dance, so can you."

She felt a jolt as he pulled her closer, his breath in her ear as he shifted her against him, his hand traveling slowly up her spine. "Back straight," he instructed, "as though nothing on earth could ever weigh upon your shoulders. And chin up," he added, releasing her fingers to take hold of her face, " _always_ , and let nothing and _no one_ drag it down."

"No one would," she said back, closing her eyes as he brought his hand to the back of her neck, cupping the base of her head and caressing it. "No one could," she added, though she wondered if that were a lie.

"No," Tom murmured in agreement, "No one could ever diminish you." His lips brushed against her cheek, warm and thrilling and terrifying, as he bent to whisper in her ear. "And I envy any man who can possibly look away."

* * *

Pansy watched her husband's eyes, intense as always, as they wandered to the table of her ladies over dinner; to the petite figure with chestnut brown curls, Pansy knew, and the bent head that she could not prevent a venomous stir of loathing for. She watched from afar as Hermione looked up, the only woman on earth with the gall - or lack of breeding, as was still irreversibly evident - to meet Tom's eye. His gaze was searching and hungry, and Hermione was smiling at him; a smile full of secrets.

Pansy, across the room, felt her heart sink.

"Out," Tom had barked, barging into her quarters in the midst of her nightly undressing; her ladies, as commanded, had scattered, leaving Pansy to clutch the half-loosened corset around her waist.

"My lord," she'd gasped, "I was not expecting you until - "

He turned her sharply, pressing her forward; she braced herself against the foot of the bed, trying to breathe, as he drew his hands over her thighs. "I'm not granted the luxury of time, _wife,_ " he muttered, lifting the thin fabric of her shift and running a hand across the curve of her arse, humming his approval.

He nudged her heel with his foot, spreading her legs apart, and slid his hand from her thigh, pressing two fingers through her folds. "Hmm," he murmured, "not as ready as I might have hoped - "

"Tom," she'd said, half apology, half plea, and with considerably more fear to her voice than she might have wished to divulge, "I only - I wasn't expecting - "

"Pansy," he had murmured, but it was meant to quiet her more than it was to soothe her, and so she had shut her eyes, swallowing her protests and confining them to the knot in her throat. It wasn't so bad, really, now that she knew what to expect; she had thought, foolishly, that being a wife would be more rewarding - or rather, that it might not end the moment his duties were done - but it was never her lot in life to have had the privilege of wishing for such things. She, bred as she had been, understood her place.

She had jewels, she reminded herself sternly, and a crown, and she had done as well as she could for herself in her marriage; and so when he had finished - and after she had waited until he left the room to crumble at the foot of her bed, allowing no one in but Daphne - she simply painted the mask back on and resumed the dance, as tireless and elegant as ever.

 _At least he comes to me still_ , she thought at dinner, watching her husband watch Hermione. At least she had not lost him completely.

She hoped, _desperately_ , that she had not lost him completely.

Much as she might have wished to run - to throw things, really, and tear Hermione limb from limb, which was something she now believed she could do without remorse - the duty that had been gifted to her by blood rooted her to the spot. She was meant to sit there, dripping in precious stones and misery, and wait patiently until the King had chosen to retire; and then she would prepare for bed, her hair let loose from its punishing coil by the subject of her husband's fascination. Pansy thought of her future, lamented it in silence, and heard her mother's voice in her head, far away and saddened -

_Are we sure that he will be kind to her?_

_He is many things,_ Pansy thought of telling Dahlia, thought of whispering in her mother's ear, confessing her hidden fears and failures; _He is powerful and strong, and he is brilliant and he is perceptive, but you aimed much too high, Mother, when you wished he would be kind._

She let her eyes travel slowly around the room, trying to draw herself from her own melancholy. _Let him look,_ she thought, as Lord Mulciber stepped forward to seek Tom's council and he finally tore his eyes away from Hermione. _Let him get his fill, then, and let me continue to wear his crown while he tires of her._

The thought cheered her, if only for a moment.

She caught a flurry of motion near the door and looked up, catching Harry and Ron as they strode into the room, taking their seats at the furthest table; she watched, curious, as Harry's mischievous grin broadened, his laugh carrying through the hall at something Ron had said. He was, as ever, entirely ruffled, his dark hair askew and his cheeks whipped crimson from cold, and it made his eyes - _green,_ she recalled, and shivered - that much more brilliant, and his liveliness that much more out of place amidst the dull roar of court chatter.

She realized she was staring as he looked up, meeting her eye; his smile faltered, a breath seeming to pass between them, and then resumed, broader, as if to reward her for her attention. She instantly glanced down, intently studying her lap, and looked back at her husband; he and Mulciber had been joined by Severus, which meant the night would likely be long still. At the table of her ladies, Hermione was silent and thoughtful, focused intently on where Tom sat as though from a distance, as though she could read his mind.

 _Perhaps she could,_ Pansy thought miserably, and turned her head quickly, set on looking anywhere else but at Hermione; that, she knew immediately, had been a mistake.

Harry was watching again; and again, he held her gaze.

Being herself not a stupid woman, Pansy decided to make a particularly swollen drop of condensation on her cup of mead the subject of the night's entertainment. She did not raise her eyes again until Tom had stood.

* * *

"Today," Tom said, "we charm." He held a key in his palm before waving a hand over it, bringing it to life; it flitted away, bird-like, and Hermione gaped in awe.

"Oh," she managed, watching it leap towards the ceiling, and Tom smiled knowingly at her.

"A pretty spell, of course," he cautioned her, "but more difficult than it appears. The animation of the object is dependent on your ability to draw from your own lifesource."

"My own lifesource," she repeated, frowning, and then looked up to meet his eye. "You actually gave your own life to the key?"

"In a sense, yes," he confirmed, waving his fingers in a fluid twisting motion to call it back towards him, the heavy brass coming to rest lightly on his palm. "I've told you before, the magic you have is rooted in _you -_ in the way you can harness the things you feel. This," he said, gesturing to the key that seemed to tremble as he stroked a finger across it, "is simply me lending my own power to the object."

He gestured for her hand and she gave it, permitting him to deposit the key on her palm. She shivered a little as his fingers brushed hers; he seemed to catch this, but said nothing.

"Now," he instructed, with the little hint of reverence that resounded every time he was about to witness her abilities, "what do you wish it to do?"

" _Do_?" Hermione repeated, startled. "You mean, other than fly?"

"Well, you _can_ choose to make it fly, if you wish," Tom permitted, shrugging. "Lightness of being will do it. But," he added, his voice softening even as his eyes hardened, "you can make it do anything you want. You can dissolve it to ashes; you can mold it, set it ablaze." He watched her, waiting to see how she would respond. "You can bend it with the strength of your will."

She watched the glimmer in his eye, the curl of hidden longing, and felt it beckon to her, drawing forth even as a piece of her grasped for the safety of being able to remember how to fight it. She caught the hunger in his gaze - _feasted_ on it - and wondered how much of him she had come to mirror.

"Bring it to life," Hermione asked hoarsely, clearing her throat, "only to destroy it?"

"Funny, isn't it, that you would possess the capacity for both," Tom noted drily, taking hold of the hand that held the key and warming it from underneath. "A key," he murmured slowly, eyeing it where it lay. "How delicate it is in your hands."

She realized, then, that _she_ was in his hand, her knuckles resting serenely against his palm; she snatched her hand back and closed her fingers around the brass, seeking solace in the coldness of the metal.

"A key," she repeated, and glanced up at him, pressing the subject. "Do the same principles apply for a life, then?"

"Both yours to charm or destroy," he agreed, and the truth of it dawned on her.

"So when you take a life," she said, swallowing, "you do it with a piece of yours?"

He shrugged; a tacit agreement. "It would be inelegant of nature, wouldn't it, if it were any other way?" he prompted. "If I did not imbue something with a piece of myself," he continued, challenging her with a step, "what power would I have over it?"

He was close again; _too_ close, and her eye caught on the lines of his chest, her mind straying to the power coiled beneath them.

"Is that all anything is?" she asked breathlessly, forcing herself to meet his eye. "You, and the things you can control?"

For a moment he said nothing; _did_ nothing, as though he were battling with some indecisive part of him. Then he took a step away, holding his hands behind his back, inviting her with the offering of space.

"At one time, yes, that was all anything was," he informed her softly, and before his intent could settle - before she could think _before me,_ and then ask _and now?_ \- he gestured with the flat of his hand. "Now," he instructed curtly, "charm the key."

She uncurled her fingers, eyeing the item in her palm, feeling herself itch with possibilities; _dissolve it to ash,_ she heard him say, and felt herself yearn in agreement. _Bend it to your will -_

But instead she let her palm heat beneath it, levitating the key above her hand; she gave a brief flutter of her fingers, permitting it to rest between cool layers of the air, before sending it floating back to Tom.

"Just because you can control something doesn't mean you should," she told him, though she wondered if the statement had been more for her own benefit than his.

He smiled, plucking the key from mid-air and tucking it into his pocket.

"Perhaps not," he agreed.

* * *

It was a rare moment that Pansy was able to find herself alone, but she found she quite enjoyed the solitude; it was, in a way, a return to the familiar, to her days in the Borderlands when things had been quiet, and she had had only her father to disappoint. Her mask grew flimsier with each passing day, and at times, it took far more effort than it was worth to apply - and so the walk alone along the castle walls lent her a much needed escape. It permitted her the freedom, for once, to indulge her own weighty disappointment; to permit her courtly smile to falter, if only amidst the greenery.

Though, perhaps indulging her misery was unwise; it didn't seem enough, and it was harder than ever to paint a smile back on her lips by the time she headed back in through the castle courtyard.

She heard Daphne's voice as her own footsteps tapped against the castle stone, and then caught Theo's response; warmed a little by the thought of joining them, she followed the sounds of their conversation, aiming herself in their direction as she concluded her walk from the gardens. A third voice, though, and one that Pansy recognized as belonging to the younger Lord Malfoy, floated towards her from the corridor and she paused curiously, partially concealing herself in an alcove before approaching them.

"Perhaps you should befriend the Queen, Draco," she heard Theo suggest, his tone lighter and less burdened with formality than Pansy had ever heard it. "Maybe she'll convince Tom to finally find you a wife."

"As if I'd want one," Draco muttered, and from afar, Pansy could see his face twisting with revulsion, the consummate handsomeness of it marred by his haughty expression."I'm better off without, I think."

"Oh, don't say that," Daphne said softly. Pansy watched her glance up, sharing a smile with Theo, and felt a twinge of something that was at once an unnatural fondness and a deep, unbearable envy. "Marriage isn't so bad."

"Not for you two," Draco corrected bluntly, glancing indignantly at them as though they had insulted him by mere virtue of their existence. " _Unfortunately,_ " he continued, accompanying the word with a dramatic roll of his eyes, "I don't think I'm likely to have the same experience."

"And _what_ , pray tell, is your opposition to the institution?" Theo asked drily. "Do you worry a wife might detract from your overall sparkle?"

"Hilarious," Draco muttered, shaking his head as Daphne laughed softly, "though you know full well my opposition."

"Ah, yes," Theo remarked sagely, "because for you, marriage only means - "

" - being saddled with some horrible woman I'm forced to breed with," Draco finished, nodding firmly. "Look at the Queen," he added, and Pansy nearly choked. "Any other King but this one and she'd have no problems at all, but _apparently_ ," he drawled, "Tom doesn't wish his women to be both well-bred _and_ beautiful - "

"Draco," Daphne interrupted sharply, her hand tightening on Theo's arm. "Do _not -_ "

"Oh please," Draco scoffed, "don't tell me you haven't noticed the so-called _Lady_ Hermione," he muttered to her, making a face. "King or not, how Tom thinks we will be convinced by that obvious charade, I have no conceivable idea - "

"Draco," Theo warned, lifting a dark brow. "Watch your step - "

"Why should I?" Draco demanded, seeming to grow more agitated as the conversation went on. "I've seen mud run more convincingly than that Granger woman's blood, and yet we're all supposed to pretend we don't notice?" He glanced between them, but Daphne and Theo were clearly unwilling to indulge his ongoing rant. "Does he _really think_ ," Draco continued manically, even as color began to rise in Daphne's cheeks, "that we can't all clearly see that he's put the Queen aside for some wholly unremarkable, _low-bred_ tart - "

Pansy shut her eyes, fighting tears.

"Enough," Daphne snapped, her voice cutting furiously through the cool air of the corridor as she took a step towards Draco, removing her hand from her husband's arm to brandish a finger in his face. "You _will not_ say such things."

There was a pause as remorse - or at least some brief instance of sheepishness - momentarily dusted itself over Draco's silvery silhouette.

"You _do_ know that I'm right," Draco reminded Daphne quietly, and she blanched, her lips pressed together tightly, but said nothing; instead Theo stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Daphne's waist.

"Right or not, she's smart to call you on your fuckery," Theo muttered, glancing reassuringly down at his wife. "Best that you not say any of those things aloud. Your father would murder you, for one thing," Theo casually reminded Draco, "and it's treason, for another."

"And it's unkind," Daphne added quietly, "and _untrue._ "

 _It was like her_ , Pansy thought with a twinge of heartbreak, _for her to try_ ; but even she could hear the uncertainty in Daphne's voice. Even she could tell that Daphne, her closest friend - her _only_ friend - could also see, despite her purest intentions, precisely what Draco had seen.

Pansy turned sharply over her shoulder, suddenly desperate to get away; she headed the opposite direction, her eyes on the ground, and propelled herself furiously away from the things she had heard.

She collided almost instantly with something - _someone,_ she hazily acknowledged, who must have been behind her where she'd been standing in the corridor - but she did not stop. Not when he voiced his quiet apology, not when he murmured her title; not even when she caught a glimmer of green and the flash of dark hair and knew precisely who it was that she'd barreled into.

She did not stop, she did not look back. Not even when she realized - _don't bend,_ she pleaded with herself, _don't break -_ that Harry must have heard it all, too.

* * *

"What is the draught for?" Hermione asked, looking over the potion. "You haven't explained what you're doing."

"That, my little lioness, is because I don't know for certain yet," Tom returned, not glancing up. "I normally have Severus follow the progress of the things I experiment with."

"Severus?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Can he - "

"No," Tom said, shaking his head. "But he's rather skilled with herbology and alchemy, and other such things that are sufficient without my - or _your_ ," he conceded, nodding at her in an uncharacteristically deferential way, "abilities."

"This is an experiment?" Hermione asked, eyeing it. "What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"Ah, the same as always," Tom supplied, a small smile pulling at his lips. "What do all men want, do you think?"

"Sex," Hermione offered bluntly, and Tom laughed.

"Close," he agreed. "To _live_ , of course," he informed her, still chuckling a little at her insolence, "and to know the secrets of life itself, so as not to be defeated by it."

"Defeated by death, you mean?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Is this your attempt to gain eternal life, then?"

"Among other attempts, yes," he permitted, inclining his head. "This is merely a side project," he explained, lifting one brow, "for when I tire of the minutiae of running my dominion."

"Minutiae," she repeated, half under her breath. "By which you mean - "

 _Gossip,_ she thought instantly, recalling the guilty silence that always entered every room along with her, the telling dearth of activity that she knew meant she'd been the subject on everyone's lips. She thought of the other ladies who whispered about her - _hush,_ Daphne would scold, though everyone knew it was for the Queen's sake and not Hermione's, _stop your incessant prattling and get to work -_ and the faces of the lords who sneered at her; of the younger Lord Malfoy, in particular, who made an ongoing practice of doing little to hide his disdain.

"Certainly nothing I can't handle," Tom supplied, a slow, impassive smile slipping over his lips. "Despite Harry's best efforts," he muttered, and then it was Hermione's turn to arch a brow.

"Sinister plots?" Hermione ventured, and Tom slowly shook his head.

"I wouldn't allow anything to reach the level of plotting," he said coldly, looking at once the King he'd been when she'd met him; aloof, and assured in his own greatness. "But he is irksome, to say the least."

"He seems likeable enough," Hermione remarked, and Tom glared at her, looking both angered and vaguely betrayed. " _Though_ ," she conceded emphatically, holding his gaze, "I would not expect any loyalty to him to be as persuasive as loyalty to you."

"No," Tom agreed, relaxing slightly at the statement, though the glowering remained. "I find people are far more motivated by fear than by" - he waved a hand carelessly - "whatever it is they find _likeable_ about him, as you so delightfully put it."

He was sulking, she realized, as she watched his gaze travel anywhere in the room but at her; for a moment, part of her wanted to scold him for his childishness. The other part of her, though - the selfish part, and the part which understood that he was stinging from her acknowledgement of someone else - soared, and that was the piece that won out.

"There's no reason to deny things as they are," Hermione murmured comfortingly, reaching out on a whim to brush her fingers over his knuckles, soothing him. "I would not think it wise to suffer under any delusions."

"No," he said again, softening at her touch. "It would not be wise." He turned to her, appraising her sharply. "I think, perhaps, sometimes I forget why I needed you," he said softly. "That perhaps I have permitted myself to be - " he hesitated, " _distracted_ , and that you help me to see things clearly."

"Perhaps I do," she agreed, locking eyes with him. "Perhaps we - "

She stopped.

"Perhaps we need each other?" he ventured, his eyes falling to her lips.

"Perhaps we should return our attention to this draught," she said stiffly, forcing herself to turn away.

* * *

It was late and Lavender, always eager to please, was frantic; it was not her job to present Pansy's evening linens, and yet -

Pansy looked around the room. Someone was missing, she realized, and it was someone - _someone -_

"Where is Hermione?" Pansy asked, suddenly furious. "Where is she?"

"I - I don't know, Your Majesty," Lavender confessed apologetically, "I'm so sorry - "

Pansy shoved her out of the way, feeling something feral tear apart her breath. "Find her," she gritted out, " _bring her to me_ , Lavender, or I _swear_ \- "

"I'm here, Majesty," Hermione said quickly, appearing in the doorway; she was still dressed from dinner, Pansy noted miserably, which meant she had been with someone;

With _someone._

"Get out," Pansy said to Lavender, who recognized danger in the lowness of her voice and scattered backwards, hastily seeking the exit as she stumbled over the uneven wooden floor. "Everyone else," Pansy breathed, staring at Hermione. "Get. _Out_."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hannah murmured, and the four or so women in her room slowly filed out as Pansy refused to look away from Hermione's face, not even to meet Daphne's worried glance as she closed the door behind her.

"Your Majesty," Hermione opened softly, though speaking the title seemed to sting, "I apologize for keeping you waiting."

Pansy gritted her teeth in anger that Hermione would dare to speak first; that even now, even when deigning to _apologize_ , the other woman could be so insufferably impertinent.

"Where were you?" Pansy asked, staring at her. "Don't lie to me."

For a moment, Hermione said nothing, as though she were toying with her own better judgment; Pansy took a few steps closer, looking down at the smaller woman.

"Where were you?" Pansy demanded again, hoping the desperation in her voice was only audible to her. "Do not toy with me, Hermione - "

"You know," Hermione said quickly, not looking away. "You know where I was." She waited a moment, a word caught on the tip of her tongue, before slowly lowering her gaze. "Your Majesty," she added, her voice barely a whisper.

 _You know where I was._ With Tom - with _her husband -_ Pansy knew, and she couldn't speak.

She paused, momentarily dumbfounded. "You," Pansy stammered. "You - how - "

"You asked me not to lie," Hermione reminded her, the remark so lazily condescending that it stretched and preened, luxuriating between them. "And I do not wish to," she added, worsening the lack of homage with the implication of her own desires.

Pansy gaped at her, enraged and fully breathless.

"How dare you," Pansy seethed, searching helplessly for words. "You realize, don't you, what you've just confessed?"

Hermione did not flinch. "Majesty, if you do not wish for candor, you should not ask for it," she said sharply.

"Don't," Pansy spat, choking on the word. " _Don't_ speak to me that way - "

"I do not wish to offend, Your Majesty," Hermione replied evenly. "You are, after all, the Queen."

 _Yes,_ Pansy thought furiously; and she saw mockery in the other woman's gaze but still, _yes, she was the Queen, and -_

"How unfortunate that having a king's cock inside you isn't quite enough to earn the title," Pansy remarked, glorifying internally as the universe saw fit to grant her a single favor, permitting a stray beam of light from the candles cast itself from her jewels. "A pity," she lamented falsely, digging into the reserves of her cruelty. "If only you could be rewarded for your service."

Hermione's jaw clenched at that; her first indication of being dealt a blow. "I serve nothing and no one," she said coolly, beginning - _unforgivably_ , Pansy thought savagely - to turn away, submitting Pansy to the insult of her back.

 _No,_ Pansy thought, igniting with rage, _no, I won't let you walk away -_

She stepped forward, gripping Hermione's arm before she turned. "That's treason," Pansy hissed. "You realize that you could be tried for your disloyalty, don't you?"

To her horror, Hermione smiled slowly at that - a cruel, pitiless smile, and one that she must have learned from Tom - and leaned in, whispering in Pansy's ear.

"Be sure to take it up with your husband," she murmured, before slipping her arm from Pansy's grasp.

* * *

"Hermione," Tom said, looking startled as she threw the door to his workshop open. "I had not expected you to - "

"You told me you would worship me above all others," she interrupted, fighting what was at once a heated rush to her cheek and a boiling rage in her chest. "You _told_ me that you would put me above _all else_ \- "

"And I did," he said, blinking as he turned away from his foolish immortality draught to face her. "I _do_ , Hermione, I consider you - "

"You may _consider me_ all you like," Hermione snarled, wishing to upend the cauldron, if only to force a wreckage in his life to mirror the one he'd caused in hers. "But the fact is that you've brought me here, you've thrown me to the - the _snakes -_ "

"You knew what was coming," he reminded her. "What did you expect?"

" _You_ ," she spat bitterly, though she felt foolish just for saying it. "I wanted - I thought you would - "

"You thought I would put my wife aside for you?" he asked, and while she might have assumed he was mocking her with the question, it didn't seem to be a taunt. "Is that what you wished from me?"

"No," she growled, furious with both him and herself. "I don't belong to you," she reminded him, "you don't _have_ me - "

"No, I don't," he agreed, watching her. "You do not wish to give yourself to me."

"I don't _wish_ to be an object for your entertainment," she snapped, the beams beneath her creaking as she paced. "And that hasn't changed - so if there's nothing here for me except for derision - if there's nothing but gossip and ridicule - "

"Why do you listen to them?" Tom demanded, taking a few steps towards her. "Why do you care what they say?"

"How can I not?" she countered, gritting her teeth in anger. "Your so-called _Loyalists_ are the worst of the bunch," she railed. "The Malfoys, the Notts, the Lestranges - they look at me like I'm - " she swallowed around the sickening concept of _nothing_ , forcing it down. "And the Queen," she added venomously, "she is the first to accuse me of - "

"Do you know what they say about _me_?" Tom hissed, cutting her off. "My own wife's father. Do you have _any idea_ the kind of whispers that I've had to stamp out, to overcome?"

"But you do nothing for _me_ ," Hermione reminded him. "Because of you they say nothing to _my face_ , but still - you brought me here as though it would be easy, that you and I could have this - " she paused, sputtering, not wanting to admit what she had hoped she'd find by following him. "You said - "

"I know what I said," he interrupted stiffly. "And I mean it still. It's you, Hermione - _you_ are the one that I want." He looked imploringly at her. "Surely you must know that."

She blinked, fighting a vision of something; of intertwining strands of light. Of _passion and blood and bone -_

"Prove it," she demanded, her pulse thudding in her veins. "Prove that I'm the one, Tom, or I'm leaving."

She watched him hesitate; saw him consider his possibilities, his blue eyes narrowing with calculation as he determined where next to step, his next move in the dance at court that everybody else seemed to know.

"Well?" she asked; _abandon it,_ she begged, wishing to see him take a step of his own. "What will it be, Tom?"

He hesitated. "I would make you queen of my heart," he began, and she nearly laughed in his face.

"Your _heart_ , Tom? Is that all?" Hermione scoffed, leaning into the snarl of disdain at the thought. "If you were me, Tom, would you settle for my _heart_?"

He paused for a moment, his eyes flashing as he watched her, struggling with what they both knew to be true.

"No," he finally spat. "I would take until there was nothing left of you that wasn't mine."

She didn't spare a moment of gratification for the words on his lips; she felt herself on the edge of victory, and forced herself on to triumph.

"Then you know," she whispered, "you know that I'll have all of you, or you'll have none of me, and you know this because - "

_Because look how flawlessly we join -_

He rushed towards her, reaching for her, his eyes wild and greedy and _starved_ ; and in a moment that only hours before might have had her pushing him away, she let him in, let his hands settle possessively on her hips, let his breath skate longingly on her neck -

"Because you are mine," she gasped, as he lowered his lips to her neck; his breathing was labored and his hands were traveling, frenzied, up and down the length of her spine. "You are _mine_ ," she repeated, digging her nails in, as if blood might make it true.

"Yours," he swore, and she felt him bind himself to her, the power in him calling out for hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Dedicated to pierrej92, the sweetest of them all.
> 
> A brief PSA: Alpha, my graphic novel collaboration with Little Chmura, is now available on Amazon. You can find more information on the story at www.enter-alpha.com. Thank you, as always, for reading!


	6. Hands of Fate

**Chapter 6: Hands of Fate**

The moment she'd felt the stir of _something_ \- of the very air changing around them, of binding futures and twisting fates - Hermione had gasped, tilting her chin up and finding solace against Tom's lips; he kissed her, sealing them and searing her, indulging her in the flames of him, letting her drift to ash in his arms. She had imagined him, imagined the way he would taste, the way his fire might lick at the coolness of her, igniting the stillness; imagined he would be sweet in his way, as sweet as an emerging breath. As sweet as life renewed.

But it was nothing like she'd imagined.

She had _thought_ she wanted sweetness, but she knew with near immediacy that she had been wrong, been a fool, been wired impossibly flawed by years of sentimental nonsense thinking he would melt to sugar on her tongue; what true passion had ever been _sweet_? If longing had a flavor, it was this; it was Tom. It was the bitter powerlessness of needing him, the sour taste of finding with a jolting certainty that she was as much his as he was hers. It was richly abundant, intensely indulgent; lustful emptiness, covetous need, and she might have gone a lifetime never knowing herself to possess a craving so desperate if there had never been him. Never been _Tom_.

"I want you," he murmured in her ear, a ring of longing to the edge of his voice, and a piece of her soared, conquering and exultant. _See the power in him,_ she thought, feeling the spark under his palm, the way his hands might have burned through the heavy fabric of her gown, _and see how you own it -_

_See how it looks on you -_

"Then have me," she whispered, and the growl that left his throat was a guttural rasp, choked down and swallowed, like he couldn't trust it to escape the confines of his lips. "Tom," she said, pulling away to look at him, "have me, then."

She watched his blue eyes darken, watched his fingers shake as she guided them to her breasts; _I could have any woman in this kingdom on her knees,_ he'd said, and she smiled to herself, glorified in watching him come undone, in seeing him at her mercy. He looked lost, far away, wholly enraptured, his hands sliding along the cut of her bodice.

"You cannot know," he said, still watching the swell of her cleavage, the quickening of her breath as he touched her, "how much I have hoped that you would - "

He broke off, laughing. "Hope," he repeated bitterly, shaking his head and abruptly releasing her, taking a step back to set his jaw, to draw his shoulders back, to battle within himself. "Look what you've done to me."

"Made you human?" she asked, her heart stopping as he stung her with the distance. "Perhaps you're more man than king, then," she said, hearing an unintended sharpness; she watched him smile, the slowness of it dripping like honey across his lips.

"Oh, Hermione," he said after a moment, savoring her name and measuring her with a glance, "I would never disappoint you by making the distinction."

"What does that mean?" she asked breathlessly, watching him watch her.

"It means," he murmured, taking a step, "that I would never disappoint you with insipid dreams, nor condemn you to foolish wishes - "

She gasped as he pressed her back to the cool counter of the table behind her; a quick motion from the flat of his hand cleared it entirely and then he had lifted her on top of it, pressing himself between the folds of her gown, his fingers drawing up the hem.

"You have no small ambitions, Hermione," he said in her ear, his hands sliding along the inside of her thighs. "You would never deign to love any man who was just a _man._ "

"And what are you then, Tom?" she asked, drawing his head to her breast, closing her eyes as he let his tongue drag across the lace hem of her bodice. "Are you a god, then, or simply king?"

He laughed, spreading her legs wide, his fingers temptingly settling themselves against the slick warmth of her as he pushed her gown further up her thighs. "Even when I have you in my hands, I still cannot possess you," he lamented with a slow shake of his head. "Still you mock me - "

"I don't mock you," she corrected him, leaning back as he brought his lips to her neck. "I truly sometimes wonder."

"Careful," he warned with a chuckle, gesturing above, "you could be struck down for even thinking such things" - he broke off, pressing his lips to her breast - "or, perhaps" - another kiss - "claimed by the heavens themselves for your sacrilege - "

"If there exists a deity greater than you, then let him have me," Hermione gasped, his fingers wrapping themselves around her thigh. For a moment he found her lips again, his kiss more insistent, more demanding, like he wished to drag the very core of her from her breath; to take hold of her and claim her, like the sum of what she was could fit between his fingers as easily as the curls he'd let loose from her hair.

"No other can have you," he whispered to her, a desperate supplication as their lips parted. "You are _mine._ "

 _No man on earth could possess you,_ he had said; _how I wish that were true,_ she thought desperately, running her finger across the smooth crimson of his lips, swollen now from the time spent worshipping hers.

She let her fingers travel down to his throat, capturing his swallow against her hand, and then past the crevices of his chest, smoothing the hem of his shirt from beneath the band of his trousers and brushing her fingers against the skin of his abdomen. "Have me then, Tom," she murmured, her eyes locked on his.

For a moment he was frantic, his eyes alight with hunger, anticipation, _want_ , and she felt a brush of nerves, of fear that tapped its fingers entrancingly up her spine -

And then, just as abruptly, the look in his eyes cooled as he took in the sight of her, her breath captive in the confines of her throat.

"No," he murmured, shaking his head. "No - you still have your virtue, I can't - "

"My _virtue_?" she repeated, feeling fury surge. "Am I suddenly to be measured by the same standards as the rest of your court, Tom?"

"No, Hermione," he said, pulling her closer as she drew back. "I simply want you to enjoy this the way that I will enjoy it," he whispered, sending a shiver up her spine. "For all that I've wanted, to deprive you of the same satisfaction" - he nipped at her ear, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck - "would be ultimately disappointing for me."

"Then," she managed, forcing moisture to her throat, "what is it that you suggest?"

"I am your teacher, am I not?" he asked, slowly pressing her back against the table. "So let me teach." She felt the cold wood settle below her shoulders, heard the rustle of her gown; she lifted her hips as he commanded, watched him lower his face between her legs -

"Now," he instructed, his lips pressed against her thigh. "For a first lesson." He grazed his teeth against her skin before brushing a kiss to where they'd been. "This," he murmured, "is pleasure."

She closed her eyes, half fearful; but then his lips were against her - the heart of her, the warmth and the depth - and she wanted to be still, to maintain control, control, _control_ -

But her hips were writhing against his mouth, his hands spreading her apart as his tongue slid against her; she felt a bewildering onslaught of unsteadiness, of ache that grew steadily and surmounted an inexpressible pain, driving towards something out of reach; he brought his hand up, tearing at her bodice, ripping the fabric down to close his fingers around her nipple, glancing up at her as if to say that now she was _his_ _-_ now she _knew -_ now she would finally understand what it truly was to want, to want, _to want -_

She cried out as the twisting, coiling lurch inside her shattered, the whorl he'd built devolving inside her and bursting, a greater curse than any she'd experienced striking her the moment she knew she'd have to have it again. She'd chase it - chase him - to let him break her; to make him give himself to her and take her.

"So this is pleasure, then," she said breathlessly, panting as she slowly raised herself on her elbows to look at him. "Is there more?"

A smile stole across his face before he pressed forward, the taste of her on his lips. "So much more," he whispered, and she drowned in her want for him, cursed for life.

* * *

Pansy glanced at her husband beside her; she watched him watch Hermione as she danced across the room. With every touch from the other woman's partner - Draco, Pansy noted, who looked contemptibly unenthused - Tom seemed to clench his fist a little tighter, to stiffen in his seat, his knuckles growing whiter as the dance went on.

As the dance ended - a spirited Pavane, the dancers as light on their feet as their hands on their partners - Pansy forced herself to swallow her misgivings, watching Tom slowly applaud as her ladies drifted towards the back of the hall.

"Tom," Pansy murmured softly, and he glanced at her, his mind seeming to travel a long way before his blue eyes settled on hers. "Will you come to me tonight?"

She watched the muscle dance along his jaw, the manifestation of his indecision. "I can't," he ruled, and she glanced at her hands in her lap.

"If it is a matter of other obligations," she half-whispered, "I can stay up for you, Tom."

He let out a burdened sigh, leaning back in his seat. "I'd prefer you did not," he said simply, his gaze drifting to fall - once again - on Hermione.

Pansy took a deep breath, trying to appeal to his sense of propriety; trying, foolishly, to reach the empathy she knew he lacked. "Tom," she said tentatively, "my Lord, I only - "

"Pansy," he said flatly, his voice low, his eyes trained elsewhere. "You understand, don't you, the purpose of our marriage?"

She hesitated. "I know you chose me," she murmured quietly. "I know I pleased you well enough, at least, for that."

He glanced sharply at her, considering her. "You're not a fool, Pansy," he judged, his gaze hardened and unbending as he leaned into his hand, sliding a finger against his bottom lip. "I know this."

"No, Tom," she agreed, trying not to sulk. "But if you would only - "

"I chose you, Pansy," he interrupted, "for reasons other than your beauty, or your wit." His expression was unreadable, but Pansy knew it was less an explanation - less an apology - than it was a hardened reminder; truth without fanfare. _Without sympathy_ , Pansy thought sadly.

"You are a daughter of the Borderlands," Tom continued, "and as such, I required you."

She shuddered at the past tense.

"Are my requirements at an end, then?" she asked, forcing her lips not to quiver weakly as she fought back tears.

He sighed, a twist of mockery lining itself in his cruelly handsome face. "I suggest, Pansy, that if you find yourself displeased with our arrangement, perhaps you might not cling so naively to your romanticisms," he said, and only her unfailing pride suppressed a broken gasp of sorrow at the acknowledgement of her marriage as an _arrangement_ , "or to your childish perceptions of love."

That word, Pansy noted achingly, slid from his teeth like poison; she watched his gaze slide to Hermione again and wondered, then, what happiness the woman would possibly find with him. Wondered, too, if it were worth it to crave affection from a man who had none to give; and wondered lastly if she should not pity Hermione for the incalculably merciless man she had so obviously chosen - the _man_ , of all things, that Hermione had chosen over duty, over honor, over righteousness.

Over the value of nobility.

Pansy wondered, that is, until she remembered the glitter of icy triumph in Hermione's gaze; the woman's captivating cunning. _Perhaps Hermione, like Tom_ , Pansy thought bitterly, watching her gaze travel defiantly towards the king, _looked disdainfully on something as flimsy as love._

Which, as it turned out, was something Pansy now doubted she would ever find.

At Pansy's silence, Tom nodded his rare approval, adjusting in his seat and returning his attention to his court; to the woman he wanted, Pansy knew, and who had needed no arranging. Power buzzed between the two of them, from the line of Tom's jaw to the rigid strike of Hermione's spine, and Pansy, from her privileged vantage point, could see with an ironic clarity that _they_ \- for all their contested blood - were the very portrait of regal authority.

Pansy held her head stiff; she did not cry. She took her pain and swallowed it, held tight and left to wonder when the dam might break.

* * *

Hermione fell into a curtsy, ignoring the bristled indication of annoyance from her partner beside her - Lord Malfoy, who was perhaps the least likable man at court, if not the entire realm - to set her eyes on Tom's.

 _Patience,_ he mouthed, his lips curling up in a smile; she bit her lip, hungrily recalling the lessons he had so far conspired to teach her.

"Careful," she heard Daphne breathe behind her.

Hermione turned. "Lady Nott," she said, eyeing her guardedly. "Careful with?"

Daphne passed her a sympathetic smile. "I'm not as foolish as I look, Hermione," she said delicately. "I would hope, if there is any affection between us, that you would do me the honor of not diminishing my powers of perception."

Hermione permitted the smallest possible smile; an acknowledgement, she offered, but not submission. "No, you're no fool," she agreed. "But you'll have to tell me whether there is any affection between us."

"Surely as fellow women in this court, there must be _some_ ," Daphne said, and for all her gilded sheen and privilege - for all that she was draped in finery and wreathed in loveliness - Hermione recognized a sharpness she'd not caught before. "We are all condemned by the same hand of fate, are we not?"

Hermione's smile waned; she recognized the dance. "What is it, Lady Nott?" she asked tightly.

Daphne tilted her head, indulging her own wistful lamentation. "You have no idea what you take from her," Daphne remarked softly, and at her gesture Hermione glanced helplessly to where Pansy sat beside Tom, the Queen's shoulders rigid at her throne.

"Does she not understand what has been taken from me?" Hermione returned, equally quiet as she tore her eyes away from the King and Queen; she heard the tireless voices in her head, the burden of her gender and her birth - _do you think us fools? A pity, a pity she was not born a man -_ "Life is a series of inequities, Lady Nott," Hermione said curtly, shaking herself of her demons, "dealt by the same 'hand of fate' that you think binds us."

"We suffer the same," Daphne suggested. "Do we not?"

"So I should feel sorry, then, that her lot in life is the same as mine?" Hermione asked, hearing an edge of defensiveness to her tone. "Should I pity her her misfortunes simply so that we all suffer in concert?"

The lines tightened around Daphne's beautiful mouth. "You misunderstand me," she began, and Hermione shook her head.

"I don't," she said, and if anything had been saddening, it was that; it was the _understanding_. "But I would do your queen the favor of permitting her to suffer in silence," Hermione advised, gesturing to Pansy, whose neck looked like it might snap beneath the effort she had expended in holding her head high, the heavy crown balanced perilously atop her head. "Nothing would shame her more, Lady Nott, than knowing that we - that _you_ ," she clarified pointedly, "nor I, bore witness to her pain."

Daphne seemed to wither at that, recognizing truth. "I see," she murmured, glancing down. "Perhaps you are right."

"That is my unfortunate lot in life," Hermione said, not unkindly. "To be right," she clarified, "and to have a mind ill-suited to a woman, paired with the regrettable absence of a cock." She glanced back at Daphne, considering her. "You think, I presume, that the queen has blessed me by permitting me to enter her service," Hermione suggested, "or perhaps that I owe her some fealty by virtue of my allegiance?"

"Is that so wrong?" Daphne asked pointedly, and Hermione shook her head again.

"Her Majesty lives in a prison of her own making," Hermione told her, waving a hand around the hall. "The entirety of this court - this charade, this silly dance," she said emphatically, "this code of behavior that you all live by - _this_ is what chains her. Not me."

"Perhaps not," Daphne permitted. "But then, perhaps we cannot _all_ simply rise up from the ashes, as others of us have done," she suggested knowingly, raising one brow to challenge her.

Hermione nearly smiled. "No, perhaps not," she agreed, and she turned to meet Tom's eye, finding pleasure in the rising.

* * *

Pansy held her breath as she walked the castle ramparts; she felt the wind as it drifted between her fingertips, felt it slap color to her pale cheeks and sting her bloodshot eyes, reminding her how wretched she was. It spoke in her ear, alternating between whispers and bellows, taunting her in Tom's voice. _Wouldn't it be nice to feel nothing?_

_To be nothing?_

She closed her eyes, weighing the sum of her parts; measuring the pitying glances, the saddened sighs. The sum of herself, found wanting.

 _You failed,_ the wind laughed in her ear, _you failed._

Some rubble came loose and fell to the ground below; she was so high up she could not hear it fall. _Good,_ she thought, and nearly laughed, toying recklessly with the distance.

At this point, would she even make a sound? Did she even exist? Tom would be glad of her absence, she knew. Perhaps ultimately it could be considered a wifely duty to spare him her presence.

 _Just a step_ , she told herself playfully; a coax of sorts, or a dare. _One step,_ she thought, the silk of her shoe so intimately faultless against the ground, _a fall,_ and then -

She felt the wind knocked out of her as steady arms wrapped around her ribcage, yanking her back from the rampart ledge.

"Wh- unhand me!" she yelped, fighting her captor. "What have you - "

A voice, throaty and deep, laughed in her ear. "I don't make a habit of sitting idly by as young maidens take to their deaths," he informed her.

She'd heard his laugh carry through the Hall enough times to recognize it, much as she regretted the discovery of having committed it to memory. It was Henry-called-Harry, the knave himself, and she was tightly in his grip.

"Codified somewhere in your handbook of roguery, is it?" she snarled, twisting out of his grasp.

"Nothing quite so limiting, but general theories apply," he said drily, releasing her.

She turned to face him, speechless with rage, sputtering in his face. "You - how - how _dare_ \- "

His eyes were as green as she remembered, as green as they'd been when they'd invaded her mind; _were they the reason she'd failed?_

She pushed the thought from her mind and tried to draw out spite, the bitterness that came so effortlessly from her lips suddenly vanishing from her tongue as she faced him, watching his expression sober curiously as he looked at her.

"How dare I?" he countered. "How dare _you_?" He stepped closer, forgetting himself - a misstep in the dance - his nose inches from her face.

"How dare you let him win?" he asked quietly; so quietly that even if they were in the company of others, only she would hear. It was intimate; devastatingly private, restrainedly visceral, and consummately _wrong._ "How dare you admit defeat?"

 _Defeat,_ she thought, and recognized the accusation.

"You can't speak to me like that," she told him, though the statement lacked her intended venom. "I'm the queen," she added haughtily, lifting her chin.

To her displeasure, he softened.

"Thanks to me, you still are," he reminded her. "Lucky I knew you'd be so gracious," he added, a glimmer of mischief abruptly reappearing his laughing jewel-toned eyes.

 _I wasn't,_ she thought protestingly, _I never intended -_

But the words faded before they reached her lips, and she stopped; perhaps she was.

Perhaps she had.

"You mock me," she said instead, drawing herself up and pursing her lips. "I don't care for it."

He chuckled. "My roguery," he supplied in answer, shrugging, as if that were explanation enough. "You understand."

"I don't," she snapped. "And I don't condone it, either."

His eyes slowly scanned her face. "Apologies, then," he murmured. "I shall have to settle for being the second most upsetting man in your life."

She drew back at that, remembering all the things he had seen - the things he must have heard that even she had not - and suffered the intangible blow of _knowing_ before dragging her shoulders furiously, summoning her aristocracy.

"You overstep," she accused, feeling a hollow ache in her soul at the transparency of her abandonment. _He knows,_ she thought, _he knows you've failed and he's watched you do it, even from the cast-out perimeter of court -_

"As is my practice," he admitted, "overstepping, that is." He took another step towards her, making the transgression literal. "But I would be remiss if I did not inform you that your husband is a fool," he continued grimly, watching her, "a tyrant, and a fool; and if I let you walk away from here less than certain that you know it, then I will be the one to suffer for it."

 _Treason_ , she wanted instantly to shout, _conspiracy, impropriety_ -

But there was no laughter in his eyes now; only a glitter of something. Something she'd seen before - from her husband, in fact, but never once directed at her - but something she knew to be dangerous the instant it appeared.

She swallowed it, forcing it down: _want._

"What is it you wish to take from me, then?" Pansy asked, careful not to betray the dryness of her throat or the tight flutter in her chest. "Am I a tool to the throne?" she mocked. "A mechanism for revenge? A path to your rightful place?"

"Why must you be anything but you?" he returned, and he raised a hand, smoothing an errant curl away from her face.

 _A lie_ , she thought, panicked. His words, his glance, it all had to be a lie - what had men done but lie to her?

"You," she began hoarsely, and swallowed, "you should be jailed, or _hanged_ \- "

"For what?" he asked, laughing. "Calling the king by his name? By conspiring with his Queen, who knows better than anyone that he is a fool?"

"No," she said fiercely, "for - "

 _For looking at me too long,_ she wanted to say, _for daring to stand this close to me, for making me wonder, and question, and -_

 _Want,_ she heard again, and shoved it down.

"Impertinence," she growled, and he chuckled again, looking delighted.

" _That_ I agree with," he ruled, nodding appreciatively at her. "Show me the scrolls, Your Majesty, and I will happily let you take me away."

She clenched a fist; he was, in a word, incorrigible.

"You tease me," she muttered, shaking her head. "Have you not a care for your life?"

"I have more for mine than you have for yours," he reminded her, gesturing to the ledge beside them. "Perhaps it is you, then, who should be found a criminal for your carelessness."

She felt herself flush, ire dancing on her tongue, until she saw he was laughing again.

"Apologies, Majesty," he assured her before she could speak, his laughter melting to a smile. "I mainly keep company with other scoundrels, and seem to forget myself in the presence of a lady."

"It seems you do," she sniffed. "Unwise, Lord Henry - "

"Harry," he corrected quickly, taking a step towards her. "My friends call me Harry."

"Friends?" she echoed skeptically, raising one brow. "We are certainly not friends, your Grace."

"Ah, sincerest apologies, Majesty, as it seems my introduction was incomplete," he said warmly, leaning in to speak in her ear. "My lovers call me Harry, too," he murmured, and before she could regain the reflex to slap him, he leaned away, eyes dancing, "and the King as well, so why not keep it in the family?" he suggested innocently. "In fact," he declared roguishly, " _nobody_ calls me Henry."

"Perhaps I should, then," she said stiffly, conscious of his chest against hers, "in the event you manage to forget which audience I am."

"Forget?" he asked. "Forget, and deprive myself the flush in your cheeks while you scold me? Never," he murmured, his eyes tracing over her face, committing her to memory.

He raised a hand as though he would run it along her hair again and she compelled herself to step back, the howl of the wind quieting sullenly - moodily, with childish disappointment - as she forced a breath of distance between them.

"Don't touch me," she cautioned, swallowing.

He moved to let his fingers hover over her face; he let them trace the air over her cheek, let them float across her lips.

"I wouldn't," he assured her, looking fearful for the first time, and of something she didn't know yet how to name. "I won't," he swore.

But perhaps she'd already known it was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: A note - the "eventual" listed in the summary is, in fact, very much eventual. I would not concern yourself with looking for evidence of that pairing any time soon. [Edited: This is a story with two protagonists, neither one "better" than the other. Please don't feel the need to bash either character, as quite a bit of story (and growth) remains.]
> 
> Thank you for your patience. This chapter dedicated to tmtcltb!


	7. Storm Brewing

**Chapter 7: Storm Brewing**

"When you said you wanted to see me this late, I wasn't aware that this was what you had in mind," Hermione commented blandly, glancing up at where Tom had his head bent over his draught. He stared intently at it before reaching a hand over the surface, closing his eyes and stretching out his fingers until the liquid within the cauldron had turned a shimmering bronze.

He waited a moment and then opened his eyes, clearing his throat without looking up at her. "Disappointed, are we, Hermione?" he asked, unfazed, giving the concoction another testing stir as she grimaced.

"I only thought," she ventured roughly, fighting the growl of disappointment that clawed its way from her throat as she fidgeted from afar, "that you wanted - "

"I do," he interrupted, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping excess liquid from his fingers. "I will," he clarified, glancing at her, and she shifted under the blow of his eyes; the glittering, darkened blue. "But it has occurred to me that perhaps your magical education should not suffer any inattention for our - " he paused. "Distractions," he finished coolly, though his eyes seemed to spark as he watched her take a testing step in his direction.

"You say that like I've fallen behind," she commented neutrally, striding forward to reach him and resting her palm against his chest. "Have I?"

She felt his sharp inhalation, watched him struggle to collect himself. "Surely you're not satisfied as things are," he said quietly, staring down at her hand. "I'd consider you out of sorts if you stopped aspiring for more."

"Oh, I want more," she assured him, letting her hand slip down his torso and smiling victoriously as he forced his eyes shut. " _Much_ more, Tom - "

"Stop," he commanded quickly, taking her fingers and gripping them in his hand. "First things first, Hermione - "

She scowled, registering the rejection before feeling an insuppressible wave of discontentment surge in her chest, contorting to a rush of anger.

"What is this?" she demanded, ripping her hand from his grasp and taking a step back, stung. "Is this about power, Tom?" she pressed angrily, waiting to see what motion he would take. "Control?"

He shook his head, the muscle tightening around his jaw. "Not everything is a game, Hermione," he muttered, staring at her. "But it has come to my attention that I might one day want - " he broke off, clearing his throat again. "I might one day _need,_ " he amended, "someone upon whom I can fully rely."

He glanced up slowly, meeting her eye. "Someone," he clarified slowly, "who is capable of abilities I might one day require."

She felt her eyes narrow suspiciously as she watched him. "Something's happened, then," she guessed, gauging his reaction. "Hasn't it?"

He shifted away, deliberately not answering the question. "All you need to know is that I do not wish you to remain my apprentice forever," he said bluntly, not looking at her. "You're no use to me untrained."

"No use to you?" Hermione repeated in disbelief, gaping at him. "What does that - "

"I _meant,_ " he muttered in frustration, "that it does me no good to limit your powers. However much I want you," he added, looking torn, "and however much I wish to - " He cut himself off, curling a fist as he stared down at his workbench. "I said I wanted all of you," he reminded her forcefully. " _Everything_ , and that means - "

"Tom," Hermione said, taking a step forward. "Look at me."

He bristled, displeased with the order from her lips; _a pity,_ she heard whispered in her mind, _a pity she was not born a man,_ and she suffered a blow of loathing for his privilege. "Hermione - "

"I said _look at me_ ," she repeated venomously, snarling at him as she twisted her fingers to take hold of his chin from afar, turning him towards her until the blue of his eyes settled restlessly on hers.

There was a moment, a light between them; a glimmer of something, and then she took a breath, inhaling a flood of distant futures - a taste of blood and bone, of _Tom, please,_ and _you asked for this, Hermione, this is what you made me -_ of twisting strands of fate, of burdened coils of moonlight and shadow, pale and sharp and taunting and _what have I done, what have I done_ and _this is what you've made me, Hermione, this is what you've done -_ before the air in her lungs wrenched to a gasp, releasing him to stagger helplessly aside, gripping the corner of the wooden table to prevent her knees from buckling.

"You see," Tom said neutrally, swallowing anger as he stepped beside her. "You can't control it, Hermione, I haven't taught you how - "

"Did you see it?" she asked breathlessly, bringing her hand to her cheeks, pressing her fingers into a layer of cool stagnation that floated above her skin. "Did - did you hear it?"

"Hear it," he repeated, lowering himself to look her in the eye. "What did you hear?"

She shut her eyes, shaking her head and ducking his look of concern. "I - I must have imagined - "

"This is why I have to teach you," he interjected sharply, pulling her to her feet and then closer, yanking her against his chest. "You're more powerful than even you know," he said in her ear, and she felt a sense of awe that rattled around in the statement, a bruising reverence in his voice.

"And you need me," she whispered. "Don't you? Because you're afraid," she realized, laughing a little as she pulled back to look at him. "You're afraid you can't control your court forever, aren't you?"

"I might have done just fine without you," he reminded her, running his tongue over his lips and glaring down at her. "They were considerably easier to manage when I was more apt to follow their rules - "

"Do you hear yourself, Tom?" Hermione demanded hoarsely, shaking her head and pulling away. " _Their_ rules," she taunted him, feeling a brush of disgust, "as though you're not even King - "

"I _am_ King," he countered fiercely, gripping her arms. "And I've made my choice, and it's you. But do not imagine we live in a world without sacrifice," he admonished her coldly, his touch burning against her arm, the silk of the fabric slowly disintegrating, charred and singed under his fingers, "and do not _dare_ mock me - "

"I warned you about control, Tom," she said quietly, channeling the ice in her veins and drawing a rush of coolness to the surface, prompting him to release her as the heated pads of his fingers hissed against the bare skin of her arm. "I'm not yours to _command,_ " she added firmly, raising her buzzing palms to -

"Take this," he interrupted suddenly, reaching forward to grip her hands in his. "Take what you feel," he instructed, reaching forward to tangle his fingers in her curls, bringing her forehead to his and speaking in her ear. "Use it to give us space," he murmured, and in the renewed thrill of his touch she grudgingly consented to close her eyes. "Vastness," he explained. "Expand your limits, feel it echo inside you - "

She felt a swell of something burst from her palms, coursing through her fingers and stretching out from his; it dragged the rush from her veins and flooded the air between them, searing out around her, whipping her hair from its twist and carrying her in the tendrils of a glacial breeze.

"Good," Tom said, and she realized he was shouting, his voice ricocheting around them. "Now calm it, settle it - "

She gritted her teeth and his grip on her fingers tightened. "Not like that," he yelled, sounding impossibly far away despite his touch. "Find the stillness, Hermione, _find it -_ "

She bit her lip, trying to find comfort among a whipping, uneven current of air, whimpering as she tore away at the layers of herself, stripping herself of fury and rage to find something calming, something quiet, something that she reached for desperately, feeling a leap inside herself; a jump, _a fall_ , and then -

"Good," she heard Tom breathe again, and suddenly it was quiet. "Now," he said, an unidentifiable ringing in her ear slowly fading away, "put us down."

"Down?" she asked, startled, and her eyes flew open, taking in the sight of his workroom. She had expanded the dungeon until the walls were out of sight, the surfaces around them glazed over with a crystalline layer of frost. Below them, the cold stone floor had become a reflective lake that sat several feet beneath them, and -

A fall would kill them, she realized, clinging to Tom as the wave of her own making caved in below her, her captive breath escaping in a panicked gasp.

Tom gripped her waist with one arm and lowered a palm to the floor, the heat from his fingers slowing their fall until her feet gently kissed the ice beneath them. They landed with a soft scrape, the sound of heels that buried themselves in a cushioned layer of snow, and as her breath collected in her lungs the room slowly clung to the air around her, pulled in like fabric and wrapping its walls closer, _closer_ , until she and Tom stood once again in an embrace of stone and wood and iron.

Time passed slowly, in ticks and pulses; and then they had returned.

"How do you feel?" Tom finally murmured in her ear, and she sagged against his chest, swaying where she stood.

"Exhausted," she managed to whisper, feeling it weigh heavily on her bones. "Drained."

"That'll happen," he agreed, his lips brushing her cheek. "Particularly when you've spent so much of your energy indulging in a tantrum."

"Tantrum," she repeated hazily, barely conjuring the energy to feel insulted. "I wasn't - "

"You think storms like this are made from cooler heads?" he countered, pressing his lips to the line of her neck. "I'm afraid control is precisely what you need."

She made a sound of opposition, but lacked the desire to speak it aloud. He chuckled quietly, drawing her against him.

"You are right that I need you," he murmured to her. "And in every sense of the word. Body," he said, tracing the line of her waist with the flat of his palm, "and mind." He paused, resting his chin atop her head. "Abilities."

 _Power,_ she thought, and felt it swell between them.

"Perhaps," Tom added carefully, "you might consent to needing me as well, and deliver us both from your combativeness."

She shifted, glancing up at him; she slid her hands up his back, digging her fingers into silk and skin.

"Deliver us both," she whispered, watching him swallow. "Perhaps you could do the same?"

He shut his eyes, struggling for a moment. "Not tonight," he said, his gaze raking hungrily over her face. "But soon, Hermione," he murmured, his gaze falling to her lips. "Soon."

* * *

"Your Majesty," Theo said, appearing breathlessly as she and Daphne reached the castle's courtyard. "How are you this morning?"

Pansy forced a smile as Theo, and Draco beside him, paused to offer their respective bows; her face fell into place with a practiced elasticity. "I'm very well, Lord Nott, though I would never presume to be the subject of your wondering." She glanced warmly at Daphne beside her, the other woman's dainty fingers twined together as though she were fighting not to reach for her husband. "You wish, I presume, to speak to Lady Nott?" Pansy wagered, gesturing.

"Well," Theo said, hesitating as his gaze fell earnestly on his wife, prompting Pansy to permit a more knowing turn of her lips.

"Oh, Lord Nott," Pansy remarked, shaking her head, "I wouldn't fault you if you wished to have a moment with your wife." She glanced at Daphne before turning back to Theo. "Why don't you join us for a walk?" she suggested. "I'm sure Lord Malfoy" - she paused, nodding at him to acknowledge his presence - "wouldn't mind escorting me."

"It would be an honor indeed," Draco ventured, sinking into an artful bow. _He has all the mechanization of a man who'd been born to dance_ , Pansy noted, as she exchanged the motion with a polite half smile. "Unfortunately, Your Majesty," Draco continued, inclining his head respectfully as he addressed her, "I'm afraid it may be short-lived, as I've been asked to meet with some of His Majesty's advisors shortly."

There was a minute drop in Daphne's posture that was mirrored by a breathy exhale of disappointment from Theo.

"Well, I'm a woman grown, am I not, Lord Malfoy?" Pansy returned genially, catching the exchange. "Surely I can walk alone."

"That won't be necessary," a voice cut in crisply from behind her, and in the moment that Theo and Draco's faces contorted in displeasure she found her suspicions - the horrific thrill his voice had prompted - were confirmed. "I'm happy to escort you, Your Majesty," Harry said, materializing, wind-blown, at her side, smelling of grass and the seasoned nip of autumn. "After all," he added, grinning at Draco, "I'm sure you'd find the company wanting in Lord Malfoy's presence."

Draco's mouth tightened. "Lord Potter," he muttered sullenly. "I see you've once again turned up where you're not wanted."

"An irrepressible habit, I'm afraid," Harry replied easily, unfazed by Draco's surliness. "But perhaps my presence here is more fortuitous than invasive, as it appears - unwisely, I might add," he remarked, with a trace of taunting pity, "that more pressing duty compels you elsewhere, Lord Malfoy."

Draco stiffened, though a warning glance from Theo stilled him. "If you're suggesting, Lord Potter, that - "

"I'm merely _suggesting_ that perhaps Her Majesty and Her Ladyship might consent to be escorted on their walk through the gardens," Harry cut in, disrupting Draco's courtly rhythm. "Surely you agree that it would be criminal to commit the impropriety of forcing the Queen to walk alone."

Pansy grimaced, feeling trapped. He was right that it would be improper to walk by herself while others were out, and her own lady-in-waiting otherwise occupied; though the more relevant factor at the moment, she lamented, was the way Daphne was leaning so longingly towards Theo.

She fought a sigh, glancing at her friend. As inadvisable as it was to travel with Harry, she determined, it was perhaps excusable under the circumstances.

"Thank you for the offer, Lord Potter," Pansy said tightly, forcing another smile; one of dozens already that morning. "You are welcome to join us, if only to ensure we do not waste a morning this lovely."

"A healthy perspective, Your Majesty," Harry said, flashing Draco a purposeful smile. "It seems your innumerable talents are no longer necessary, Lord Malfoy," he murmured, bending his head in a wickedly irreverent bow that prompted a grimace from Theo. "A shame to see you go, as ever."

Draco looked murderous, but he consented to take a step back, offering a careful bow to Daphne and a deeper one to Pansy, ever conscious of his practiced steps. "My Lady Nott," he said, "and Your Majesty."

"Lord Malfoy," Pansy permitted, nodding, and he took a step to the side before retreating, glaring momentarily at Harry.

"Careful where you tread, Potter," Pansy watched Draco mutter near his ear, but Harry didn't flinch. Then, with a parting bow, Draco was gone, striding purposefully away towards the entrance to the castle.

"Lovely," Pansy sighed after him, though her inward lamentation blossomed to affection as she watched Daphne's eyes light up, falling happily on her husband's quiet grin. "Why don't you two go ahead, Lord and Lady Nott?"

"Oh," Daphne breathed uncertainly, tearing her eyes away from Theo's, "but - "

Pansy waved a hand. "Go," she instructed, and Daphne waited - _are you sure?_ she seemed to ask, to which Pansy flicked her wrist in feigned impatience - before mouthing a breathless thank you and taking her husband's arm, following his lead toward the gardens.

Pansy held her breath as she took a step, smoothly accepting Harry's proffered arm; he, unsurprisingly, broke the silence first.

"That was kind of you, Your Majesty," Harry noted, gesturing to Daphne and Theo as they led. "Forgive my humble idiocy, but I find it rather admirable that it comes so naturally to grant such favors."

"Please don't speak," Pansy said quickly, refusing to be lured or charmed. "I prefer quiet when I walk, Lord Henry."

"Not even small talk?" Harry asked, glancing down to grin at her. "Perhaps we might chat about the weather?"

She swallowed an exasperated sigh.

"Sun," she permitted vaguely, gesturing above her head. "Do you require further description, Lord Henry?"

"It's Harry," he corrected quickly, "and say that I do?" he prompted. "What would you tell me?"

Pansy concentrated on permitting only the slightest possible contact between them; she let her fingers float above his arm, minimizing contact. "My father always said a day like this could never be trusted," she murmured, leaning into nostalgia amidst the effort of distraction. "He would wager there's a storm brewing, though he was always a distrustful sort of man."

Harry nodded knowingly. "We of the cruder sex," he said, winking at her, "can never quite appreciate the value of a beautiful thing." He paused, taking a few muted steps while Pansy inhaled, the perfumed florals wafting comfortingly beneath her nose. "Though, I will say for his lack of wonderment," Harry permitted, "that a pretty stillness has nothing on a storm."

"Spoken like a man who's never lost anyone to weather," Pansy remarked grimly, shaking her head; the Borderlands contained a primary port, and a number of her father's ships had been lost over the years.

But Harry, ever the tireless knave, only smiled his roguish grin.

"There's much to admire in danger," he commented, glancing at her. "Beauty in fragility, I suppose," he added, and she shook her head, meeting his eye as they slowed to a pause.

"Are you an aspiring poet?" she asked drily. "Or just a fool?"

He looked around, laughing, before leaning towards her, the green of his eyes falling on the curve of her lips.

"There's nothing more stunning, I think," Harry said softly, glancing up to meet her eye, "than something poised to break that doesn't."

Pansy's breath caught.

"Please don't speak," she forced out, swallowing, and Harry waited a moment - a moment too long - before nodding, his eyes not straying from hers.

* * *

"I don't need an escort," Hermione insisted, glancing sideways at Severus. "I've been to see him several times before, as you might remember."

"There's no need to be so testy," Severus replied, quite testily in Hermione's opinion. "I'm taking you somewhere different tonight."

"Somewhere different?" Hermione repeated unsteadily, feeling her pulse stutter along with her tongue. "Where are we - "

Severus stopped abruptly, coming to a sudden halt in the corridor that sent Hermione crashing gracelessly into his back.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly when she righted herself, and part of her was relieved he didn't make a fool of them both by employing the falsehood of _Lady,_ "are you quite certain you know what you're doing?"

Hermione felt herself frown, the features of her face contorting in a mix of confusion and displeasure.

"Say what you mean, Severus, or say nothing at all," she advised with an uncontrived bluntness and watched the corners of his lips tighten, his eyes narrowing as he stiffened.

"It's a wonder you've not made enemies at court," he commented, and she let out a loud scoff.

"I have nothing but enemies at court," she ruled, pursing her lips. "But you know as well as I do that it's only Tom's opinion that matters."

Severus winced for a moment at the easy use of his King's name, but nodded slowly, sharp enough for the efficiency of honesty. "True enough," he murmured. "Though I would advise you to remember who it is I serve."

Hermione grimaced. "If you're suggesting that I might mistakenly suspect you of any loyalty to me, I assure you, such a thought has never crossed my mind," she said, glaring up at him. "I presume that you, like the others, only deign to tolerate me so long as I continue to" - she paused, but cast her hesitation aside as Severus' expression seemed to darken in a rather bleak prediction of her intent - " _persuade_ Tom's favor." She tilted her head, challenging him. "Am I right?"

He gave her a deeply unsavory look of exhaustion. "You know that you are," he said, and she sniffed her agreement, "but still. Are you _certain,_ " he said, with a slightly patronizing lilt to his voice, "that you know what you're doing? Have you truly considered the consequences," he clarified, "of your" - a pause, visibly biting his tongue - "fraternization?"

A bitter laugh leapt to her throat at his word choice, but she pushed it down. "What did Tom say when you asked him that?" she asked, and he blanched.

"He said - " Severus paused, trailing off. "He was quite immovable on the subject," he confirmed, and Hermione fought a triumphant smirk.

"You think my answer will be different, then?" she said softly, the gentleness of her volume belying the arrogance of the taunt. "That _I_ will be the one to change my mind," she mused dubiously, "or to disappear in the night, and all because I should fear the members of his court and what they will think?"

"It's no sign of weakness to simply avoid trouble when it calls," Severus said matter-of-factly. "Whatever enemies you think you have now, they are nothing compared to what you will surely encounter."

"I'm not afraid," Hermione interjected roughly, lifting her chin.

"No, you're not," Severus brusquely agreed. "Nor is he, and _together_ ," he growled emphatically, his temper clearly rising, "you're _both_ \- "

"Careful, Severus," Hermione cut in, letting her lips soften to indulge a warning smile. "Call the King a fool, and I'm assured you toe the line of treason."

Severus' grimace tightened. "Very well, then," he said, rubbing tension from the back of his neck. "In that case, we're here."

"Here?" Hermione asked, startled as she eyed the vacant corridor. "But this leads to - "

"I know where it leads," Severus snapped impatiently, gesturing with an arm outstretched as he offered her an unconvincing bow. "I presume you can find your way, can you not?"

She was nervous now, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. She gripped her fingers tighter, feeling a cool thrill in the air that she knew had trickled unconsciously from her fingers. She'd once had to hide her abilities; now, it seemed, they ventured out unbidden. She owed that to Tom, she thought, and felt incongruously cheered by the prospect.

Power, in whatever form, was always somehow comforting.

"I can," she said, and raised her chin. "You may go."

Severus nodded once, and she strode forward, not waiting for him to leave. It was a narrow stairway up the tower, her fingers coming to rest on the ornate handle of the door; a slight push, a steady breeze, and then -

"Hermione," Tom murmured, looking up from his book. "Good evening."

"Tom," she said back, glancing around his private chamber. It was a room very much fit for a King and even she could tell that, despite having never been around much splendor; the vaulted ceiling was swathed in a midnight blue and the moldings were lined with gold, the tapestries rich and inviting and the light from fire in the hearth lapping happily across the ornate posts of his bed.

 _His bed,_ she thought, and swallowed. He smiled.

He was still dressed in his formal dinnerware, having entertained a guest from across their borders; he bore the ceremonial swathing of privilege and as much as she wanted to hate him for his obvious excess, she also felt her breath catch, not immune to the power in his stance that was somehow - miraculously - reflected in the emerald green of the cloth that draped across his chest.

"You wanted a King," he told her simply, gesturing to his finery. "I thought it best you have one, then."

She glanced up, meeting his eye. "Tom," she said again, and he took a step towards her, "does that mean that you - "

"Of course, I wouldn't deprive you of a lesson," he assured her quickly, catching her in his arms and lowering his head to speak quietly in her ear. "Dim the lights," he whispered, and she closed her eyes, drawing from the warmth in the room and letting it collect against her palms. "Very good, Hermione," he said, nodding, the candles flickering as they lowered, and pressed his lips to her throat. "Perhaps as a reward, then - "

She inhaled sharply as he trailed off and spun her, holding her back against his chest and suddenly loosening the ties of her corset, the gown gaping around her waist as though he'd sliced it with a knife.

"Tell me," he said, running his fingers along the bared edge of her spine, "what have you learned so far, Hermione?"

 _Control,_ her mind whispered, as she leaned into his touch.

"To conjure," she returned, slipping her hand back to run her fingers along the lining of his thigh, sliding her palm up to the outline of his already hardened cock, "to charm - "

"To manipulate," he chuckled, scraping his teeth against the dip of her neck. "Clever."

"Mm," she agreed, as he slipped the fabric of her gown from her shoulders, drawing the silk over her breasts and replacing the material with the warmth of his hands. "Is that why you want me, Tom?" she asked hazily, turning her chin over her shoulder to brush her lips against his. "My cleverness?"

He groaned softly into her mouth, letting her trace her tongue along his lip before leaning his head back, pulling her hips flush against his.

"I admire it, certainly," he agreed in her ear, slipping the gown to her waist. "And while I might have once settled for your wit alone - "

He spun her back around, making a quick motion with his fingers that dropped her gown and undergarments to the floor, pooling at her feet.

"This," he murmured, staring hungrily at her, "I confess, I long for as well."

She stared back at him, feeling her cheeks heat; they'd been intimate, but never exposed. _But now,_ she thought longingly, her eyes tracing over the lines of him that she'd felt but hadn't seen, _now she would be able to -_

"Go ahead," he said, beckoning to her with a slow, calculated grin that drew her eyes from his chest to his lips. "If, that is, you feel you can - "

She slashed her fingers from afar, the weighted finery of his clothes slipping from his form in shreds; it seemed her enthusiasm was destructive, but if anything, Tom's gaze only seemed more insistent. He kicked the tattered remains of his clothes aside and stood before her, peerless in stature.

"Interesting," he said, his tongue slipping over his lips as he eyed her. "I'm not quite certain whether to reward you for the effort or punish you for the mess."

"Isn't this _little chat_ ," she said pointedly, "punishment enough?"

"You'll have to learn patience somehow," he countered, and she tilted her head.

"Perhaps a lesson for another day, Tom," she suggested coolly, watching him as she moved towards his bed. "Perhaps," she added, falling delicately back against his bedding, "there might be something more interesting to learn today?"

His lips quirked up in a slow smile as he stalked towards her from where he stood, kneeling on the bed before positioning himself over her, slipping his fingers across her thigh and letting the heat of him burn her, angry red welts appearing at his touch and then fading, the complements of their powers melting to desperate perfection in their contact.

"What do you wish to learn?" he asked, pressing a searing kiss to her hip. She, feeling her heart race, twisted her fingers in the darkness of his hair, guiding his head up to look at her.

"I want to know what you feel like," she whispered, and he shuddered at her touch, sliding his chest against her torso to press a desperate kiss to her lips.

She watched his hands shake, felt the sting of them burning against her as he touched her, feverish in his need. She, desperate to be taken where he'd brought her before - only _better,_ and _harder,_ and _more -_ reached for him, stroking the length of him and squirming beneath him, raising her hips and throwing her head back as he brought his mouth to her breast.

 _Control,_ she thought, forcing her eyes shut and writhing beneath him, _you have to learn control -_

But _this_ , the way she felt, the way the ache twisted and unfurled inside her, was impossible to master; her need that so blissfully matched his was unflinching and unwavering, and it wasn't until he finally filled her - a stab, a stinging thrill, and then the sharp burn of him yielding to the coolness of her in a joining that was at once satiating and enriching and challenging and _yes,_ she breathed, _yes, yes, Tom -_ that she felt complete. She had learned from him that pleasure and pain could serve the same master and so when he made her cry out in blessed torment, his blue eyes wild and consumed by her, she knew the certainty she'd had about him had not been misplaced.

She wanted a King and he had bent for her, and they somehow knew that a hunger this demanding could cost them both; and still it was merciless adoration, ruthless worship, tortured prostration that continued well into the night until they both had fallen, dizzied by exhaustion, a rumbled onslaught that hurled itself around them, full of things to come as they were left in sated silence, content to lick their wounds.

* * *

Pansy had been heading back from prayer when she caught the rising buzz of argument, an escalating sharpness of words; she recognized the sound of the two Lord Malfoys, the elder and the younger, and paused within a castle alcove, not wishing to interrupt.

"Draco," she heard Lucius hiss angrily, "have you lost your mind?"

"Have I?" Draco drawled reflexively in response. "Have you? Has _he_?"

Pansy, grateful now that she had chosen to hide, felt her lungs deflate amidst a stunningly sharp blow of certainty; she could tell already where the conversation would inevitably lead.

"It is not your place to question the King's wishes," Lucius told his son firmly. "If he wishes to take a mistress - "

Pansy winced at that, surprising herself with her continuing ability to wilt despite the unchanging reality of her situation; Draco, for his part, scoffed loudly, prompting Lucius to growl in frustration.

"Draco _,_ " Lucius snapped again, "if you continue this pattern of insubordination - "

"Just who am I _insubordinating_ in refusing to kiss that woman's feet, Father?" Draco demanded, and Pansy struggled with an odd moment of envy for his fortune; for his ability to luxuriate in the aggression she herself was not permitted to feel, much less express. "If you think I will consent to play along with this absolute insanity, you surely must be - "

"In the interest of me selfishly not wishing to behead my own son and heir for treason, I suggest you stop talking immediately," Lucius spat furiously. "I am not asking you to like her, Draco. I am merely asking you not to _antagonize_ her, and if you cannot see the difference - "

"Surely you're not suggesting that the King would put that Granger woman before the Queen," Draco interrupted, and Pansy held her breath, waiting for his response. "Are you, Father?"

Pansy heard Lucius sigh, shifting to reach for his son. "You may think whatever you like of me, Draco, but the fact is that I'm a man with an inclination towards survival," Lucius said in a low voice. "I can recognize when a tide is turning, and I simply wouldn't advise you to go out to sea."

Pansy swallowed a knot of pain that collected in her throat, bowing her head as she listened.

"The Queen favors us," Draco insisted. "She's close to Daphne, and therefore Theo, and I - "

"That's all well and good," Lucius agreed, in a way that made Pansy's innards twist. "That benefits us for now. But it is the _King_ whose satisfaction carries weight - and as I myself am a man who once thought to bend heaven and earth for a woman," he added hesitantly, "I wouldn't underestimate what he will do for Lady Granger's affections."

Yet another reminder of how she'd failed.

"My mother was different," Draco protested. "And as for _Lady Granger_ ," he added, revulsion evident in his tone, "how long does she think she can carry the title?"

There was a rustle as Lucius must have shrugged, indifferent. "The longevity of her influence is of no consequence to us," he said neutrally, and Pansy fought not to gape at the ease with which he swayed, content to mindlessly follow trends. "If there is another woman after her, then we will adjust. But for now," he warned, "I must ask you once again not to make enemies of a woman whose approval we may one day require."

"You ask too much," Draco muttered, and Lucius let out an audible sigh.

"What is it that upsets you so much about her?" Lucius asked tersely. "Surely it cannot pain you _this much_ to simply exist in her atmosphere - "

"I don't like her," Draco insisted stubbornly, and Pansy grimaced in agreement.

"I gathered," Lucius remarked. "The reason being?"

"She's completely intolerable," Draco growled. "Everything she says is a constant stream of insubordination and arrogance. She's defiant, unpolished, insolent - "

 _In short, she's you,_ Pansy thought, and there was a purposeful pause as Lucius' expression must have reflected a similar message.

"I see your opposition," Lucius drawled.

"Hilarious, Father," Draco retorted drily. "But even if I were to be found equally unbearable, I would at least have the benefit of some basis for my conceit."

"One would hope," Lucius replied unconvincingly. "But I take it I'm getting through to you?"

"Yes," Draco muttered. "I'll play nice with the King's wh- "

"Draco," Lucius cut in sharply, and Pansy sighed. " _Please,_ for the love of god - "

"Surely you could find something else to entertain you," a voice murmured in her ear, and Pansy jumped, caught off guard. She spun quickly, her hand on her chest, and felt a punishing blow of relief when she caught the flash of green, the dim light glinting from a raven wave of his hair.

"Lord Henry," she sighed, and he took a step, nudging her back against the alcove's side wall.

"I thought we discussed this," he murmured, the corners of his lips pulling up in a smile. "You're supposed to call me Harry, your Majesty."

"If I do," she asked, conscious of the way her breath had yet to slow, "will it make you leave me alone?"

His smile broadened. "Probably not," he admitted, and she sighed.

"Lord Henry it is, then," she said, turning to leave; he casually leaned a hand against the wall, blocking her exit.

"You know," Harry commented offhandedly, "skulking in corners is sort of my thing."

She felt a thrill run up her spine; an ill-advised warmth that turned to a shiver, pebbling over her skin and dissipating in the air between them.

"Your thing?" she asked vacantly, her eyes traveling unwillingly over the line of his jaw.

"You know, the handbook," he supplied. At her blank look, he shook his head. "Of roguery," he clarified, and she sighed again.

"Lord Henry," she began, and at his arched brow, she bit down on her lip, shaking her head. "Harry," she amended softly, straightening and forcing her gaze elsewhere as he smiled his approval. "I don't know what you think is happening here, but - "

"Do you want me to pretend I don't know what you heard?" he asked quietly, and she glanced unwillingly at his green eyes, watching them soften. "If that's what you want," he murmured reassuringly, "though I wouldn't advise it. It must be killing you," he added, his eyes traveling over her face, resting unsettlingly on her mouth. "You must feel alone," he remarked sadly, and she felt a stinging behind her eyes, the many tears she'd fought still battling for release.

"Don't," she said furiously, feeling her fists clench helplessly. "Don't do this, don't - "

"Don't what?" he asked, his voice impossibly low, a caress she longed for and despised.

"Just don't," she said curtly, turning abruptly, her shoulder colliding with his chest as he failed to budge on impact.

"You're hurting," he observed, speaking in her ear, and she stiffened.

"Don't tell me how I feel," she snapped, lifting her chin to glare at him. "What you heard is gossip, it's - " she hesitated. "It's nothing," she said, but even she could hear how unconvincing she had been, could see it reflected in the darkened green of his eyes.

"It's not," he assured her, his free hand rising to place his fingers gently at the pulse of her wrist, a motion that was at once a plea to _stay_ and an imprint of _I'm here._ "Your Majesty, is this really a time to refuse a friend?"

She yanked her hand from his grasp, glaring at him. "You're not a _friend,_ " she hissed, feeling an ache at the words. "You're my husband's rival - _my_ rival," she insisted emphatically, relying on her knowledge of the dance even if he would not, "and you're - "

"I'm what?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he watched her. "You hate me too, then?" he accused, looking artfully injured.

"Yes," she forced out crisply, her gaze faltering as she found she couldn't meet his eye. " _Yes_. You're a challenge to my husband's throne," she sternly reminded both of them, "and therefore - "

"A challenger, and so a liar as well?" Harry prompted, a heavy swallow evident from the swell of his throat. "Is that it?"

She forced herself to look at him; _don't bend,_ she thought, _don't break -_

"You cannot expect me to believe that this is sincerity," she informed him, drawing her shoulders back haughtily. "I'm not as stupid a woman as you seem to think, Lord Henry - "

"Harry," he corrected quickly, "and I've never once thought you were stupid - "

" - and I _know_ ," she continued brusquely, ignoring him, "that you must see me as an opportunity for gain, somehow, or as some kind of leverage - "

"Well, I'd be a fool to think that, wouldn't I?" he countered angrily, and she stopped, choking on fury of her own; on the rage of knowing that for all his proffered claims of affection, he agreed with Lucius Malfoy, and he knew her favor was no longer of any value to anyone.

He watched her face fall and opened his mouth to retract the statement, suffering a brush of horror, but she cut him off.

"I knew it," she choked out, wretched with disappointment. "I knew you were lying. You were never sincere," she protested painfully, beginning to babble as she gestured to him, thrusting a hand out wildly, accusatorily. "You're no _friend -_ "

"Your Majesty," he said, taking hold of her arms and gripping them tightly, rough in his desperate atonement. "Stop."

"Don't touch me," she said instantly, the words erupting on force of habit. "Let go of me, Lord Henry," she commanded furiously, raising a hand to brandish a finger in his face, "don't think that you can - "

"Harry," he corrected again, less patiently this time, "and I wouldn't have to, Your Majesty, if you would just _listen -_ "

"To what?" she asked, feeling herself bend to hysteria. "To you forcing me to admit that my husband abandoned me? To the idea that _you_ ," she demanded furiously, "you, who have no cause to care for me _whatsoever_ , might somehow - "

"Value you beyond your crown? _Yes,_ " Harry erupted emphatically, his grip tightening around her arms. "You think you're the only person Tom's hurt?" he asked her, staring intently at her face as she fought tears - _again,_ she thought desperately, _over and over and always -_ and shaking his head. "You think I can't understand your pain simply because this" - he waved a wild hand around, gesturing towards the castle's Great Hall - " _den of snakes_ is fucking incapable of straying from its so-called loyalty?"

She felt something slip, felt the dam of sadness crack -

"I've watched you suffer with dignity and grace and I have marveled, Your Majesty," he murmured, releasing to run a finger along the line of her cheek. "I have stood in awe," he told her, and she glanced up, catching the flash in the jeweled green, "and I see you," he said defiantly, gritting his teeth in opposition as though she had opened her mouth to argue, to express a moment of doubt. "I _see you -_ "

"You're lying," she choked out, and he shook his head, bringing both hands up to rest on either side of her face.

"I'm not," he said bitterly. "I wish you would believe me," he added, hanging his head in what was either torment or a masterful impression of it. "I wish," he said, so quietly she felt it like a kiss of air between them, "you would - "

He paused, so close to her - _too close,_ she thought, _too close,_ and _please don't -_ and suddenly the moment, the shred of hope, was too much to bear. Another word, she knew, and she wouldn't only wither, she would _collapse_ -

"Let me go, Harry," she whispered, and as his eyes widened she shoved him back, taking the corridor at a run and only slowing when she was certain he hadn't followed.

Though, for a moment - in what felt like a hallucination - she heard footsteps behind her and she recklessly hoped he had, hoped he _would -_ and she looked up -

"Pansy," Daphne whispered, resting her cheek against the top of Pansy's spine as the dam broke -

And every broken thread of her soul was flooded.


	8. Forgive Me

**Chapter 8: Forgive Me**

_It starts like a lullaby, a gentle chill that floats; a meeting of whispers, of bare feet that kiss the ground beneath, but nothing is ever as it seems -_

" _If you come back, I'll kill you myself."_

_A shiver, but a soft reply. "I don't believe that."_

" _Fine" - live, die, breathe, try - "then I'll take what you love."_

_Silence._

_A rant, a gust, a demand - "Do you believe that?"_

_A murmur, a breeze, a bend - "Yes."_

_A key, a shimmer in the light, claws that close around naked skin -_

_Control._

" _Then run, little queen, and pray I don't catch you."_

_A blinding glimmer of chaos, of intertwining strands of light - passion and blood and bone, a sky that rages -_

" _Tom, please - "_

_A terrible crimson flame._

" _This is what you've made me - "_

Hermione's eyes flew open as she panted for breath, gasping, her fingers scraping at her chest until she'd covered herself in angry marks, in tiny crescent-shaped shouts of pain. She thrashed for a moment, trapped helplessly by the apathetic finery of Tom's sheets of emerald silk, and then his arm reached around her, pulling her against him.

"Hermione," he whispered in her ear, the carved muscle of his arm digging into the skin of her ribs. "What did you see?"

She looked down at where they joined, the heat of him that burned against her skin; she thought again of fire, of the terrible raging flame; of a nightmare within a nightmare, of anger twisted up in helpless fear.

"Teach me," she rasped softly, shuddering. "Teach me how to make it stop."

"Hermione," Tom said again, more forcefully this time, reaching out to draw her chin over her shoulder. "What is it?"

His eyes - bluer in the early morning light than they'd been against the soft warmth of the midnight candles - flashed as he watched her pull away, loath to meet his gaze. "Hermione," he said sharply; a regal command. "Look at me."

She sat up and he moved swiftly behind her, the sheets twisted around them as they came face to face, both on their knees.

"I saw things," she whispered, closing her eyes. "Horrible things."

"It's nothing," he told her, stroking a finger along her cheek. "Tell me."

She hesitated, trying to remember the details. It had felt more hazy, delicately infinite; she felt she'd drifted into visions of forever, of time that lacked an anchor of definition.

"Fire," she confessed, holding her palm to her thudding heart as she relived it. "The sky, Tom - the sky was on fire, and I - I was - "

"Was I there?" he pressed, sliding his arms down to take hold of her shoulders, a motion of urgency. "Where were you?"

"I - " she hesitated, bringing her hand to her lips. "I don't know. I wasn't - " She broke off again, shaking her head. "I wasn't anywhere."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asked, his brows furrowed. "What was it?"

"It's - it's nothing," she told him, fighting another compulsive shudder. "It's not a _vision,_ Tom, it's just a nightmare," she added, though she was far less sure about that than she sounded. "It's just little images of things - nothing I could say for certain - "

He seemed to exhale, then, at the knowledge that it was not what he'd expected; he seemed simultaneously disappointed and relieved, but slipped a finger under her chin to look at her, aiming for comfort.

"It happens, at times," he murmured. "People like us," he explained, reaching out to cup her cheek with one hand. "We can't help seeing more than we're meant to."

"Can you make it stop?" she asked, sighing as his thumb brushed across her lip. "Can you teach me?"

He paused, considering it.

"I can," he said eventually, nodding slowly. "It takes some practice, but it's possible to close your mind, if that's really what you want."

"I do," she said quickly, and then looked away, finding it difficult to meet his gaze; the words had come out more fearful than she'd intended. "Not always, but - "

To her surprise, Tom nodded, a slow smile spreading over his lips as he watched her carefully avoid his eye. "You think I won't understand," he commented, shaking his head and coaxing her, a little breeze from his fingers serving to draw her chin towards him. "But I do. That's another thing about people like us, Hermione," he said. "We will always crave control, even over ourselves."

 _Just because you can control something,_ she thought with a helpless shiver, _doesn't mean you should -_

"What do I do?" she asked, and he took hold of her shoulders to shift her around, settling her in his lap as the two of them twisted in the airy softness of his sheets.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, carefully lifting her hair to slip it over one shoulder, his lips brushing the back of her neck. "Clear your mind."

She nodded, leaning against his chest. "Clear it," she murmured, "and then - "

"Clear it," he repeated emphatically, his low chuckle thundering up her spine. "Empty, Hermione."

She sighed, shifting to find a comfortable position. "Fine." She took a deep breath, trying to clear space in her mind; _nothing,_ she thought, trying to ignore the sudden itch between her shoulder blades, the cramping of her toes. _Nothing but empty space -_

"Now," Tom whispered in her ear, his voice a chill that slid over her shoulders. "I'm going to try to break into your mind."

"What?" Hermione demanded, turning over her shoulder to glare at him. "But - "

"Don't let me," he told her, a wry smirk spilling across his lips. "Place yourself in control of your own thoughts, and don't permit my entry. Unless you like me inside you," he whispered, laughing a little. "In which case we can make other arrangements."

She leaned her shoulder back, facing forward to close her eyes again. "Do it," she said, sitting up straight. "I'm ready."

"Okay," he murmured, the tips of his fingers scraping comfortingly against the roots of her hair as he leaned her head back. "Ready - "

She could feel him instantly, the presence of him in her mind; he filled her, rushing through her like a current, crashing upon her like a wave. At first it was a swell of him, a little spark that grew and stretched, spreading its arms in the emptiness of her mind until the bit of him inside her seemed to snap - pulled too thin, cracking like a whip and laying to waste, disrupted, _flickers on the horizon, fire that rages out of sight - a crimson sky, a scarlet shadow, a world engulfed in flames - passion and blood and bone -_

"Don't let me," she heard him whisper from far away and she felt a stubborn piece of herself grow, the steady piece of her that had somehow remained taking hold of the foreign spark of him and shoving it at arm's reach, sweeping it away, the flames in her mind disintegrating with a quiet hiss until only a glitter remained - a hint of gold, a muted hum of glory - and then silence filled her, a blinding whiteness eclipsing the shadows of her mind as she blinked it away.

"Did you see it?" she whispered hoarsely, realizing her fingers had dug themselves into the skin of her thigh. "Did you - "

He spun her quickly, taking hold of her face and devouring her, a kiss that sliced at her until she was sure she tasted blood.

"Being in your mind," he said against her mouth, "it's breathtaking." He bent his head, nipping at her throat. "It's beautiful," he whispered appreciatively. "You have so much more inside you than you know."

"Beautiful?" she repeated, confused. "But - the fire - "

But he was pressing her back now, reigning over her, brushing his lips against the places that made her melt, that took the quiet rage of her and made it curl up indolently in his palms; he grasped so expertly at her need, at her pulse; at her ache that seemed to helplessly collide with his, hurling itself into the feel of his hands and the throb of his kiss.

Fire licked at her mind again, flooded her thoughts; she shoved the flames aside, letting the visions taunt her in a flicker.

 _Let them come_ , she thought, digging her nails into Tom's back. _For you, I'll burn -_

But whatever it was that had awoken in her, it wasn't done speaking; Tom filled her with a groan, with a possessive growl of hunger, and she heard another voiceless murmur, a swiftly dying breeze -

 _I will make a ruin of you,_ it whispered, and she blinked back the image of Tom's crown.

* * *

Pansy stared out the window with her back to the door, not bothering to turn even as she heard it open and close; she felt Daphne slip under the sheets beside her but said nothing, permitting the other woman to curl around her in as comforting a way as she could manage.

"Tell me the truth," Pansy instructed quietly, and Daphne tucked her chin into the dip of Pansy's shoulder, releasing a quiet sigh.

"You're sure?" she asked, and Pansy shifted, pulling the bedding tighter around her as she said nothing. Daphne sighed again, displeased. "She wasn't in our chambers last night," Daphne murmured. "She hasn't arrived yet this morning, either."

Pansy nodded, swallowing heavily.

"Does he look at any others?" Pansy asked, watching the floating leaves of autumn that fluttered by outside. "Or is it just her?"

"Pansy," Daphne said uneasily, avoiding the question. "I'm not sure that - "

"Does he look at others," Pansy repeated, unfazed, "or is it just her?"

Daphne sat up slightly, reaching a hand out to play with Pansy's hair. "He only looks at her," Daphne said sadly. "And when he looks at her - "

"It's like he can never get enough," Pansy agreed, turning over her shoulder. "Like he could look for all of time," she whispered, "and he would still fail to tire of her face."

Daphne sighed, drawing a slow, comforting line across Pansy's shoulder. "It's unfortunate that it was never in our power to ask for love," she lamented. "Though," she conceded, "infatuation has similar symptoms, and such things often fade, particularly for kings."

Pansy thought of Lucius' conversation with Draco, trying not to wince. _The longevity of her influence is of no consequence to us -_

"Do you believe it will fade?" Pansy asked her, looking up into Daphne's hazel eyes. "Don't lie to me," she warned, still a Queen where commands could be issued.

Daphne's obvious hesitation was telling enough; she bit her lip, visibly stilling her tongue, and Pansy raised a hand, shaking her head.

"Nevermind," Pansy said. "Don't."

"I may have experience, but I'm no fortune teller," Daphne hastily reminded her. "What I predict has no more merit than any other fool's estimation."

"It's kind of you to pretend at idiocy, but we both know you're no fool," Pansy told her, finally shifting to sit up. "I'd imagine you're smarter than any of the King's advisors, Severus included."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Daphne replied, making a face. "And anyway," she added, nudging Pansy as she sat up beside her. "The only thing she can possibly claim are his affections. Everything else already belongs to you" - she paused, offering Pansy a low bow - "Your Majesty," she murmured, looking up with a smile.

Pansy shook her head, giving Daphne a playful nudge. "True enough," she sighed. "Though I'd have liked the crown to come with a bit more satisfaction," she murmured, "and considerably less gossip."

"That's all a crown is made of," Daphne told her sagely. "Gossip, only infused with bits of gold and jewels where necessary for appearance's sake. Oh, and speaking of gossip," she added innocently, batting her lashes at the coquettish change in subject. "Your walk with Lord Potter was quite the scandal."

" _My_ walk?" Pansy asked, arching a brow. " _Ours_ , you mean."

"Well, yes," Daphne said with a smile. "Though nobody was paying any attention to me during that particular excursion."

"Lord Henry offered his presence," Pansy reminded her, hearing his voice correct her the moment she said the name. "It was hardly anything worth remarking."

"Perhaps it was less the walking than the looking," Daphne commented musically, rising to her feet and handing Pansy her dressing gown. "It seems dukes, too, can become rather infected by infatuations," she added, sparing Pansy a warning glance.

"Infatuations," Pansy repeated, not wishing to respond to the covert accusation. "They fade, or so you've established."

Daphne gave her a little smirk, shaking her head.

"Yes, I suppose I have," Daphne agreed skeptically, and before Pansy could answer, there was a small knock at the door; both women turned over their shoulders as the door opened behind them, the doorway suddenly filling with the forms of Lavender, Hannah, and Hermione.

"Your Majesty," they said somewhat in concert, each bowing low. Hermione, Pansy noted with a grimace, was slightly pink-cheeked, like she'd run there; in contrast to the two delicate blondes who were so practiced in their service, Hermione also seemed to struggle to keep her eyes down as she lowered her head, her lips pulled tightly in an expression of discontent.

"A smaller crowd, today, I think," Pansy said softly, ignoring Daphne's narrowed glance to focus instead on Hermione's carefully guarded irreverence. "Lady Hermione," Pansy suggested, beckoning to her. "Perhaps we should be alone this morning."

Hermione's neck stiffened the slightest degree from where her head was bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty," she said coolly, looking up to give Pansy her usual defiant stare. "I think perhaps we should."

* * *

The Queen was sitting up in bed, her dressing gown slipped over her shoulders as her long hair floated down her back in a ripple of raven waves that was as sleek as the rest of her features: her dark inquisitive eyes, the pert angle of her nose, the elegant line of her lips. She sat comfortably in luxury, bathing indulgently in the attention of her ladies, and Hermione wondered for a moment whether she loathed the woman or envied her, or if it were somehow a violent bit of both.

"I thank you, Lady Nott, for your assistance," Pansy said to Daphne, toying unnecessarily with formality; Hermione found the tiny interaction unbearably telling. She prepared herself for a morning of the Queen's particular bit of nastiness, the bit of combativeness that Pansy carried out in the form of protocol; her archaic play-acting of privilege.

Hermione thought for a moment to rage against her, to make her suffer; but then she remembered in whose arms she'd spent the morning and decided such a thing might be cosmically inadvisable, or at the very least, hardly necessary.

 _Just because you can control something,_ Hermione reminded herself, _doesn't mean that you should._

"Your Majesty," she offered, stepping forward. "Would you like me to start with your hair?"

"Yes, thank you," Pansy said, waving the other ladies away. "Leave us," she said, with the same comfortable authority that Tom had used. _Look at me, Hermione._

Hermione shuddered, feeling a slight chill settle itself over her knuckles as she reached forward, settling Pansy's hair down her back. The other ladies filed out, glancing at each other; _more gossip,_ Hermione thought, and sighed.

She looked down, watching the angle of the Queen's shoulders; Pansy, too, seemed to stiffen slightly, and for whatever reason, Hermione considered for the first time that perhaps neither of them were particularly enjoying the court's recreational tongue-wagging.

Pansy jerked forward slightly as Hermione began running her fingers over her hair, tousling it at the scalp. "Your hands are cold," Pansy admonished, shivering.

"Apologies," Hermione murmured, clenching them slightly. She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating; _lightness of being will do it,_ she heard Tom say, and brought a little heat to her palms. "Better?" she asked, twisting a long curl around her finger.

"Yes," Pansy said. Hermione looked down, noticing the Queen's fingers were white, clenched tightly into a fist.

"You know, Your Majesty," Hermione offered casually, "I presume your wish to be alone with me indicates some desire for candor?"

Pansy bristled. "You overstep, Lady Hermione," she said without hesitation; a practiced retort. "I'd prefer you not guess at my desires unbidden."

"Your Majesty wished for candidness, did she not?" Hermione countered; a purposeful taunt. She watched as Pansy's grip tightened, the porcelain silk of her skin pulled taut over her knuckles, but there was no telling degree of defeat, no other outward trace of anger. Hermione didn't move, waiting for the Queen's response; she spared a moment, privately, to begrudgingly admire the other woman's control.

"You think that because you say what you wish when you wish it that you are somehow free from consequences," Pansy said eventually, and then scoffed. "You're not."

"You hope I'm not," Hermione argued, and Pansy turned around, staring at her.

"You're _not_ ," she repeated, and though her mouth tightened, there was no softening of her shoulders, no loss of certainty. "Do you think because you came from nothing that you can only gain, Hermione?" she asked, finally doing away with the pretense of titles. "Do you think that because you can take so easily _from me_ ," Pansy added bitterly, "that you will never have anything to lose?"

"I don't, though," Hermione reminded her carefully, "do I?"

Pansy's dark eyes narrowed. "There is no such thing as power unchecked, Hermione," she warned. "There is always a peak, and then somewhere to fall. Perhaps you feel invincible," she added, tilting her head in warning. "I certainly did when he chose me."

Hermione swallowed, saying nothing.

"But he's a man, isn't he?" Pansy asked, a dangerous edge of quiet to her voice. "And you cannot build your life on his decisions any more than I could. You think I play these court games because I'm weaker than you are," Pansy added, laughing spitefully. "I play these games because I know what happens when a man decides I am his to discard."

 _Ah, but you are ordinary,_ Hermione thought, feeling the rush of power in her bones. _Even with a crown atop your head, you are ordinary, and I am -_

 _Breathtaking,_ Tom whispered in her mind, and she fought a shiver at the memory of his lips near her ear.

"Maybe it's best we not pretend I'm fit to play your games," Hermione said, twining Pansy's hair around her finger again. "Perhaps the kindest thing we can do for each other is to wish for the other to fail in silence."

Pansy let out another quiet scoff. "And if I wish to be unkind?" she countered drily.

Hermione shook her head, feeling an odd compulsion to laugh; as though it were banter, somehow, between equals, and not poison-tipped threats between rivals.

"Then you are the Queen," Hermione ventured carefully, "but still, I wouldn't advise it," she concluded, and Pansy shifted smugly, lifting her chin.

"Lucky I need no advice," she said, just as Lavender entered the room, carrying a small slip of parchment.

"Your Majesty," Lavender offered, sinking into a low curtsy.

"Yes?" Pansy asked, tossing in an impatient sigh. Hermione stifled a laugh.

"Apologies for the interruption," Lavender said anxiously, "but this just arrived for you."

Pansy frowned, holding out her hand. "Give it to me," she said, and Lavender handed it over; no crest, Hermione noted, nor any noticeable indication of sender. The outside merely had a scrawled "Her Majesty, the Queen," and as Hermione quickly snuck a glance at the message of the inside - two words, reading only "forgive me" - Pansy promptly curled her hand around it, her breath catching as she pulled it towards her chest.

"No reply," Pansy said hastily. "It's - "

She hesitated, and Hermione felt her stiffen.

"A mistake," Pansy finished. "Who gave it to you?"

"Well, no one," Lavender stammered. "It was slipped under the door, and Lady Daphne suggested that I bring it for you to - "

"Yes, yes, fine," Pansy said, waving a hand. "Thank you, Lady Lavender," she added, clearing her throat. "You may go."

Lavender nodded, quickly backing out of the room. Pansy, Hermione noted, did not immediately relinquish the note in her hand; she paused as though to crumple it, and then glanced at the fire in the hearth.

"You may think yourself cleverer than I am, Hermione," Pansy murmured. "But if we're to barter with advice, then I would warn you not to put your trust in a man. Even if he does wear a crown," she said, tossing the note into the fire and watching as it burned, the edges curling up before descending to flame. "Not when you yourself are burdened with survival," she added, looking a little mournful before straightening, drawing her shoulders back with a breath.

"Now hurry up," the Queen said stiffly. "Your fingers are like ice."

* * *

"The King has asked that you ready the castle for the upcoming season," Severus told Pansy, walking with her and her ladies through the castle's eastern corridor. "He estimates a large influx of diplomatic guests and has asked me to ensure that you will have everything you need for your household."

"Yes, and I do so love hearing his requests from _you_ ," Pansy remarked tartly, muttering to herself under her breath. "Well," she declared, addressing Severus, "I will of course first require the aid of Lady Nott, who is otherwise occupied - "

"Of course," Severus agreed, nodding once.

"But I suppose I can arrange a manageable enough list of requirements shortly," Pansy continued, frowning as she surveyed the gardens. "Do you anticipate guests traveling by sea?" she added, gesturing to the waterfront. "Or will we simply - "

She broke off as a loud yell from outside was met with a mixture of cheers and shouts from afar, interrupting her thoughts. "What was that?" she asked irritably, and Severus shrugged.

"Some of the younger Lords have a tendency for rowdiness," he offered carelessly. "I presume it's recreation, or something akin to that."

"Well - " Pansy cut herself off again, hearing another loud series of jeers. "For heaven's sake."

She turned on her heel, finding her mood soured as she followed the sounds of shouting to the courtyard on the castle's west side.

There was an abrupt clatter followed by a hushed silence as she entered the courtyard, flanked by Hannah and Lavender. She paused momentarily as she took in the series of men that seemed to be divided around two figures in the middle; one who, she realized with a jolt, was Harry, while the other was the younger Lord Malfoy.

"Your Majesty," Draco said, wiping sweat from his brow and bending at the waist upon catching her eye. Pansy noted he was carrying a heavy-looking sword, a Malfoy heirloom that contained emeralds set into the handle, while Harry was holding a slightly slimmer but similarly broad-edged weapon. "Apologies, Majesty, we were only - "

"Fighting," Pansy noted with amusement, pursing her lips. Harry turned over his shoulder, staring at her; she tried to shove his words out of her mind - _I have marveled, and I have stood in awe -_

The words he'd written. _Forgive me -_

"Perhaps Your Majesty would like to place a wager," Theo suggested from the crowd. "A Queen's blessing could certainly go a long way for such a woeful group of witless amateurs."

Despite her better judgment, Pansy laughed. "A wager," she said, arching a brow. "Given a choice between Lord Potter and Lord Malfoy?"

"I agree," Draco sniffed. "Not much a choice at all."

Pansy heard a loud scoff that she registered belonged to the redheaded Ronald Weasley; in the same moment, she caught sight of the elder Lord Malfoy from afar, his sleek blond head pausing in the crowd as he observed her conversation with his son.

Pansy remembered, then, the words of disparagement that Lucius Malfoy had reserved to share behind her back; for a moment, she felt a rush of resentment, wishing to somehow be more than simply a Queen he only temporarily wished to support.

"Perhaps a different game," Pansy suggested, stepping forward. "Lord Malfoy," she offered to Draco, and he bowed to her in recognition, "perhaps you might prove your superiority by teaching me the art of" - she paused, smirking slightly as she glanced around the courtyard - "do you imagine this to be duelling," she asked, "or do you call it what it is?"

"What, idiocy?" Theo suggested. "The former, I'm afraid."

"The art of duelling, then," Pansy said, removing her cape and handing it to Hannah before stepping towards Draco again. "Will you show me, Lord Malfoy?"

Draco hesitated, glancing momentarily at his father for approval, but conceded to step towards her, offering her the hilt of his sword. "Of course, if Her Majesty wishes," he said, and she reached out to take the sword from him, promptly falling forward at the unexpected weight of it.

"Oh," she said, staggering slightly as Harry leapt to her aid, catching her by the elbow and then carefully taking the sword from her hand.

"Unwise, Lord Malfoy, considering the pupil," Harry admonished Draco, tossing the emerald encrusted sword carelessly in his direction. "Perhaps something more fitting," he added, reaching down to pull a slim dagger from somewhere near his ankle. "Like this?"

"A weapon for thieves and commoners," Pansy commented, regaining her balance and leaning away from him as Theo and Draco laughed. "How fitting indeed, Lord Potter."

"Ah, it may _seem_ lowly," Harry agreed, holding it out for her, "but a knife is a knife, Your Majesty, and despite the sad show he makes of it, it takes several years of training to learn how best to handle these," he added, gesturing to the sword in Draco's hand. "Some, like Lord Malfoy, require a more visibly impressive weapon in order to create the illusion of danger," Harry informed her, giving her a wink. "But I say you can cause more damage with the element of surprise."

Pansy frowned. "The element of sur- "

She broke off as Harry suddenly twisted her around, the dagger's blade coming to rest perilously close to her throat.

"You see," he murmured, his laugh a breath in her ear. "Now you're my captive - and even without a gilded hilt," he said, louder, addressing Draco and Theo with a playful nod before shifting, focusing his attention on her as the rest of the courtyard seemed to have collectively let out a gasp. "Never underestimate a hidden blade, Your Majesty," Harry warned, and she released a hostage breath, dizzied.

"Perhaps a swift heel to his lordship's impudent toes, Your Majesty," Weasley suggested from afar, a trace of a disapproving chuckle pulling at his cheeks. "That'd be fair breath of justice, I'd wager."

"It certainly would be," Pansy remarked, trying not to think about Harry's chest against her spine as she fought to control her shallow breaths, conscious of the knife's placement at her neck. "There are a number of men present who'd like to see you suffer," she told him quietly, shifting just enough to address him covertly. "Did it occur to you that this might be unwise?"

"Yes," he assured her without hesitation, and then let his voice drop to a whisper. "Do you forgive me?" he asked, his grip tightening around her waist. "Say you do, and I'll let you go."

She stiffened, pausing as she registered the many eyes that followed them.

"You have an odd way of apologizing," she hissed back, and then swiftly elbowed Harry in the ribs, prompting him to dislodge the knife from her throat and permitting her to close her fingers around his wrist, spinning with a practiced quickness - _it's all a dance,_ she thought with an inward laugh, _that's all anything ever is_ \- before aiming the point of his knife at his chest.

The courtyard broke out in cheers and applause; Harry himself dropped to one knee, offering her a low sweeping bow before glancing up, breathless, a handsome smile playing across his face.

 _Well?_ he mouthed, with an unforgivably broad grin. _Do you?_

"Yes," she said, and his green eyes widened. "That is," she amended carefully, "yes, I agree that the element of surprise is a useful tool, My Lord," she assured him, letting the dagger fall to the ground as she turned on her heel. "As is never underestimating your opponent," she called over her shoulder, nodding once to Hannah and Lavender and beckoning for them to follow as she hid a smile of her own.

She headed back into the castle, excusing herself from the others, needing a moment alone; but when he eventually found her, she wasn't surprised.

"I forgave you," she sighed, not turning around as she heard the familiar rhythm of his stride. "Now leave me alone."

"Why?" Harry asked, shrugging. "We're friends again."

She turned, glaring at him. "We were never friends," she reminded him. "And we certainly aren't now."

"Then why have you forgiven me?" he countered, backing her into the alcove.

"Because now I know where you keep your concealed knives," she said, pointedly glancing down at his foot. "And I like my head where it is."

"I do too, oddly," he assured her, reaching up to brush a finger over the strands of her hair. "I think it works for you."

"You should really have a care for _your_ head," she reminded him. "That stunt you pulled in the courtyard was - "

"Effective?" he guessed. "Clever?" He leaned forward, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Attractive?" he teased.

"Stupid," she said. "Objectively stupid."

Harry sighed, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. "You're impossible," he informed her. "You forgive me, then I'm stupid. Which is it?"

"Both," she informed him, crossing her arms. " _Obviously_ both."

"Where's your apology, by the way?" he asked her, his green eyes flashing. "You'll notice I haven't expressed any kind of forgiveness towards you."

"Excuse me," Pansy retorted, drawing herself up to her full height. "I don't believe I have anything to be sorry for."

"You were rude to me, Your Majesty," Harry corrected her. "I'm quite shattered."

"I'm not sorry," she informed him, and he shrugged.

"And yet I forgive you," he decided, nodding once. "Seems like the thing to do today."

"You," Pansy said slowly, "are the worst person I've ever met."

"Well, I aim for distinction," Harry said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Can't say I'm displeased."

She paused for a moment, feeling off balance; she glanced up at his face, watching him, and his smile slowly faded, the green of his eyes darkening as his gaze dropped to her lips. She realized faintly that he had once again backed her against the wall, his chest against hers, and she listened to the sound of them breathing; she watched his fingers twitch, as though he would have rather set his hand on her waist than let it rest in the air between them.

"Forgive me," Harry said suddenly, breaking the silence.

She sighed, the spell broken as she moved to turn away. "Haven't you said this already?"

"I have," he agreed, stepping back to let her. "But I suspect I will find myself repeatedly begging for clemency."

She angled herself at the corridor. "What unforgivable offense have you committed now?" she asked over her shoulder, and he shrugged, leaning against the wall.

"Forgive me and I'll tell you," he offered.

She shook her head, sighing loudly. "That's not how it works," she told him.

"Forgive me," he said again, straightening, "and I'll tell you."

"Fine," she said, rolling her eyes. "I forgiv- "

But for the second time that day he cut her off, taking her by the arm and yanking her towards him to pull her into his chest; he spared exactly one moment to sweep a hand through her hair before taking hold of her jaw and raising her lips to his, kissing her with a fevered urgency that seemed to reverberate through the hollow of her chest. It might have been a moment - it might have been little more than a breath - but it felt, somehow, like an explosion, like time itself had come to a stop so that she could watch herself collapse, her knees going weak as his arm gripped her waist, anchoring her against him. He was firm, unyielding, _unbending,_ and his kiss was a riotous flood of desperation, an oceanful of longing.

"Wait," she gasped, pulling away. "You can't - "

"Pansy," he whispered desperately, but she was already gone.

* * *

_It starts like a lullaby, a gentle chill that floats; a meeting of whispers, of bare feet that kiss the ground beneath, but nothing is ever as it seems -_

_He presses a kiss to her lips, and this time she gives in; she falls -_

_Falls -_

_Falls into the jewel-toned richness of his eyes._

_She dissolves to nothing, withers to dust -_

_And she sleeps peacefully with the dream of his arms around her._

But when she wakes, she buries her secrets and she walks like a prisoner, like a captive, like a ghost; she stares straight ahead, rooted by the weight of her crown.


	9. Make a Ruin

**Chapter 9: Make a Ruin**

Daphne turned towards Pansy, whispering in her ear. "He's staring at you," she breathed, barely audible, and Pansy did not have to ask who.

"Perhaps it's you he's staring at," Pansy murmured back, flashing her a conspiratorial smile. "Had you considered that?"

"Oh, I considered it," Daphne assured her. "But I know when a man is looking at me, Your Majesty. It's a little gift I have."

"An easy game," Pansy remarked, "when the answer is everyone."

Daphne tutted softly. "You flatter me," she mused coyly. "And anyway, it's everyone _minus one_ ," she added, shifting to step in front of Pansy. "He looks handsome today, doesn't he?"

Pansy snuck a glance over Daphne's shoulder. Harry was wearing green; _her_ color. It matched his eyes, and she felt the air in her lungs coil up and burst, pressing up against her chest to escape into her throat.

"I assume you mean the King," Pansy managed drily. "Who looks handsome indeed. Wherever he is in the castle," she added at a mutter.

Daphne dropped in a slow curtsy, her hazel eyes falling to the floor before rising demurely to Pansy's. "God save him," Daphne murmured, smirking, and Pansy rolled her eyes, pressing a warning finger to her lips.

 _Entertain your court,_ Tom had advised her, taking a brief recess from staring at Hermione to lean towards his wife over dinner. _They want a queen who makes merry, not one who cloisters herself in darkened corridors._

Apparently he'd not heard of her spectacle in the courtyard, then; or, as was more likely, perhaps he simply didn't care.

 _A hunt, then?_ Pansy had suggested neutrally, thinking. _A ride?_

Tom shrugged. _Whatever you wish,_ he said flippantly. _I have business of my own to attend to._

She'd watched him turn away, observed as his blue eyes traveled vacantly around the room to rest on that defiant head of chestnut curls. _I know you do,_ Pansy hadn't said, struggling to spare him the bitterness she'd felt.

Perhaps a distraction was precisely what she needed.

"Are you ready, Your Majesty?" Lavender asked, appearing at her side with a curtsy.

"Yes, thank you, Lady Lavender," Pansy said, nodding for her to stand. She glanced up at Daphne, tilting her head. "You're sure you wouldn't like to join us, Lady Nott?"

"I'm afraid I must tend to my husband's needs for the time being," Daphne offered apologetically, stepping in close to adjust the hood covering Pansy's hair. "I'd hate to leave him alone too long," she murmured. "Wifely duties," she added, giving Pansy a coquettish wink.

 _A sprained wrist,_ Daphne had explained, feigning regret. _From a duelling mishap, or so he claims._ _A stretch indeed to say he's bedridden, and yet -_

 _Make it true?_ Pansy had suggested, watching Daphne nip slyly at her lip.

"You saint," Pansy whispered back, and they stifled their ensuing laughter. "Give Lord Nott my best for his recovery."

"I will, Your Majesty," Daphne promised, taking a step back, and Pansy turned to Lavender, eager to get the day's ride over with. With Daphne absent - and Hermione as well, which Pansy was sure had not gone unnoticed by the merciless wagging tongues - she suspected her artfully plastered smile might suffer a strain.

It was a quick transition from the ground to the groom's hand to the seat of her horse, the dark silk of her riding gown spilling over the side of the steed's flank. The Borderlands had treacherous terrain and required a considerable proficiency on horseback, though this was not Pansy's usual animal; she shifted, trying to hide the awkwardness of the motion, as she sought out an angle that permitted simultaneous riding and breathing - not that it mattered. Neither motion came easily once she'd registered the blow of Harry's eyes falling on hers.

It was dizzying - _he_ was dizzying - even from afar. She'd been avoiding him for days, perhaps weeks, dodging his gaze and turning the corner when she heard his quiet stride, hoping she would ever manage to forget what had passed between them. He, quite infuriatingly, remained _everywhere_ , silently in the background of her life, and it was a constant test of every courtly impulse she possessed. She steadied herself, fighting the compulsion to hold his gaze; she caught the motion of his lips, though, and kicked herself internally.

 _Hello,_ Harry mouthed.

The forced arch of her smile wavered. _Don't,_ she told him with an aversion of her eyes, squaring her shoulders and then making her way to the front of the group, nudging the horse forward.

"Lady Lavender," she called, pausing to look behind her. "Is everything ready?"

She was not to receive an answer.

She wasn't even looking when it happened; something small, barely remarkable, minute - something so innocuous that her mind had not even processed its occurrence. A motion from a bush, a bird displaced, a rustle of flight that was far less disruptive than the wounded glint of disappointment that had lodged itself in Harry's green eyes, and yet there it was - a jolt, a whinny, and a sudden retreat. Her horse, spooked, suddenly reared up on its hind legs - _for fuck's sake,_ Pansy thought vaguely, _I've held it together through worse_ \- and she was thrown from its back, registering the particular vertigo of falling backwards, a crack of a tree branch and then a forced bounce of her neck, ricocheting off the ground as the searing pain of something sharp tore across her forehead.

There were scattered shouts, gasps - " _Majesty!" "The horse!" "The Queen!"_ \- and Pansy blinked, slowly registering herself on the ground and then the dull pain in her head, the tear in her gown, the ache in her back; and, for a moment, her first instinct was to laugh.

To laugh, _hysterically_ , in recalling how only weeks ago she'd been so desperate for a fall, and how when her vision swam and she wondered whose face, if any, would appear, she could only hear a whispered reminder in her ear of _no one would care, no one would mourn you, no one would suffer your loss -_

Except maybe - _but no_. That was -

_Don't._

She shifted, trying to lift her head, and was instantly met with a gentle pressure on her arms, stilling her.

"Careful, Your Majesty," she heard, catching the jeweled glimmer of Harry's eyes, two emeralds floating above her. "Can you move?"

She blinked; half-sighed.

_Don't._

"I could," she told him. "If you'd let go of me."

He glanced up, speaking to someone; her ladies, she assumed, or the groom. "She's fine," he said conclusively, and then turned to look at her, grinning. "Just a bit of an unfortunate spill," he remarked, shaking his head.

"It seems my husband's not the only thing I can't quite manage to keep a hold on," she murmured, and his mouth twitched slightly, the furrowed anxiety in his brow melting slightly to accommodate a furtive laugh.

"Unfair," he said quietly, shaking his head. "I can't laugh." She made a face and he frowned, sighing. "You could have been hurt badly, Majesty," he informed her, as if she didn't already know.

She lifted her head, testing it; he shuffled forward, bracing her. "I wasn't," she said. "Not this time." _Not after everything else,_ she thought, half-laughing again. _After everything, what's a fall from a horse?_

Harry's fingers slid against the back of her neck, helping her rise. She took in the look on his face; worry, she realized, registering that his eye had caught on something. She raised a hand, feeling for the source of a stinging pain, and brought her fingers back down, eyeing the crimson stain of blood.

"You've been wounded," Harry whispered. "Let me help."

"Don't," she told him, his fingers floating above the cut on her forehead.

"Majesty," she heard behind him, the worried voice of the groom. "Is everything - "

"Everything's fine," she cut in coolly, seeking out Lavender and Hannah and nodding to them, beckoning for their approach. "Thank you for your assistance, Lord Henry," she told him stiffly, "but perhaps you might prefer to continue the ride in what will likely be my regrettable absence."

Harry hesitated. "I'm not - " He stopped, licking his lips. "I don't wish to leave you, Your Majesty - not if there is anything that I can do to help - "

"I don't need you," she told him bluntly. "Your concern is noted, but unnecessary." She waved a hand, gesturing to the rest of the riding party.

_You've been wounded._

_I don't need you._

It was the same conversation, over and over.

 _Don't,_ she said, the message written in the rigidness of her spine as she forced herself to turn away.

* * *

"Tom," Hermione whispered, the heat from the fireplace licking at the back of her skirts, "we shouldn't - you wouldn't want your nobles to - "

"To see?" he asked gruffly, kissing her again, his thumb running across the line of her clavicle. "Let them."

Hermione tilted her head back, letting his lips rest in the hollow of her throat before gently disentangling herself from him, shaking her head. "You mustn't anger your Loyalists, Tom," she reminded him. "Wasn't it you who said you were meant to follow their rules?"

His eyes flashed momentarily. "This from the woman who wishes me to simply raze my opposition to the ground," he said lazily, and cocked his head. "Has someone spoken against you?"

She paused for a moment, staring at him, and then laughed. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

His brow furrowed. "Who?" Tom demanded, his grip tightening on her waist. "Tell me."

"Tom, you can't be serious," Hermione said flippantly. "There's no single person. People talk, Tom," she added, shrugging. "It's human nature to nurture an abhorrent rumor. The King, taking up with a _suspiciously_ common woman of ill-repute?" she sighed facetiously, leaning forward to nip lightly at his lip. "It's indecent. _I'm_ indecent," she added, "and they loathe me."

He frowned, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps I've let you distract me too long," he lamented, lips pursed. "It seems I shall have to remind them all of their places."

"That sounds ominous," Hermione said, arching a brow. Tom, however, merely chuckled.

"It is," he assured her, brushing his lips against her cheek as Severus appeared in the doorway behind them, clearing his throat.

"Your Majesty," Severus said, offering him a bow. "Lady Hermione."

"Ah, Severus," Tom acknowledged, turning to face him. "Am I to hear from Lestrange and Mulciber now?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Severus confirmed. "I merely wished to warn you they were coming, if it was your desire to bid Lady Hermione farewell."

Hermione noted Severus did not look at her, conspicuously disengaging with the visual of his King's royal hands on her despicably common waist. _Poor Severus,_ she thought, wanting helplessly to laugh. _Always having to take out the refuse._

"Interestingly," Tom said, with a coldly false smile, "that is not at all my desire." He glanced down at Hermione, who frowned in confusion. "She'll stay," Tom announced firmly, and then waved to Severus, pulling out a chair at the head of the table for himself and prompting the other man towards the doors. "Let them in."

Severus immediately frowned, hesitating. " _What_?" Hermione hissed, but Tom nudged the chair out beside his, beckoning for her to sit.

"Severus," Tom repeated, falsely bright. " _Bring them in_ , would you?"

Severus' expression tightened in displeasure, but he nodded once, disappearing.

"Tom," Hermione whispered harshly. "What are you thinking?"

"Has Mulciber spoken ill of you?" he asked, ignoring her question. "Doubtful," he answered himself, frowning. "Not really the chatty type. Lestrange, though . . . "

He glanced expectantly at her.

Hermione hesitated, frowning, hearing the derision in Lestrange's voice; the echo of the words _the King's taste has clearly faltered_. "I - " she began, and paused.

"Ah, that's a yes," Tom determined, his lips twisting into a smile. "Sit," he instructed again, flicking his wrist once to nudge the chair out further. "I have a lesson for you."

"In what?" Hermione asked, grumbling internally as she obeyed. "Choosing one's battles spectacularly unwisely?"

"You'll see," he said, reaching out to run a languorous finger along the cut of her bodice before his smile quirked upwards again, not quite reaching his eyes as he withdrew his hand. "Ah, Mulciber," Tom said, nodding once to him, "and Lestrange," he noted as the other man appeared in the doorway. Both men stiffened at the sight of Hermione.

"Your Majesty," Mulciber murmured, bowing in concert with Lestrange. "Is this not a good time?"

"On the contrary, Mulciber, it's an excellent time," Tom said, nodding once. "Lestrange," he said, gesturing to the chair beside Hermione, "you both know Lady Hermione, do you not?"

Lestrange's nostrils flared slightly, his senses offended. "We do," he muttered, offering her a stiffly uncomfortable bow. Mulciber matched it, slightly more conscious of Tom's gaze on the back of his lowered head as he offered a soft "My Lady."

"Mulciber, sit," Tom commanded, gesturing to his left, "and you, Lestrange, may sit with Lady Hermione." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with whatever his mystifying dealings entailed before adding, "Severus, you may shut the doors."

Lestrange glared at Hermione for a moment as he, Mulciber, and Severus took their seats; Lestrange wasn't quite meeting her eye but seemed focused instead on her general area, as though the whole of her being displeased him. She smiled at him, a cutting one of Tom's, and waited for the King to play his pawns.

She doubted he would disappoint.

"Now," Tom began. "You have news?"

Mulciber hesitated, glancing questioningly at Hermione, but at Tom's impatient glare he forced a smile that was something of a grimace. "Ambassador Karkaroff has accepted your invitation to court next month," Mulciber said. "I understand Queen Olympe may be sending an emissary as well."

"Excellent," Tom replied, though Hermione noted that he did not look surprised by the information. "Severus will make arrangements."

"I believe Malfoy has some connection to Karkaroff," Lestrange chimed in. Hermione got the faint impression he was speaking for her benefit; as if to remind her that, in contrast to her, _his_ input did not have to be invited. "Lucius' late wife was a friend of the family, or so I'm given to understand."

"Well, Lucius is not entirely without his uses," Tom permitted, glancing slyly at Lestrange. "Though, I wonder, would not your brother's wife share the same family connection, then, Rabastan? I find it curious that you would not volunteer Rodolphus, or yourself."

Lestrange reddened. "Bellatrix is not of the same . . . disposition as Narcissa," he said slowly. "I fear that her connection would be - "

"Ill-fated?" Tom supplied, and smiled insincerely. "Pity that you're no use to me, then."

Lestrange's face instantly blanched. "The mere memory of a woman is often met much more fondly than with the woman herself, Your Majesty." He glanced askance at Hermione. "Women are delicate of temperament," he added, "and often very capricious in nature, and I simply imagine Malfoy to be the ideal conduit."

Tom let his fingers drop to the table, drumming them thoughtfully as he flashed Hermione a knowing smirk. "Do you agree, Lady Hermione?" he asked. "Do you suffer from temperamental volatility?"

"Suffer, Your Majesty?" Hermione replied. "Never. I rather enjoy my violent fluctuations."

Lestrange looked horrified; Tom chuckled. "Quite." He let his gaze flick appreciatively over her face, nodding once, before turning back to Mulciber. "And as for my . . . other situation?" Tom prompted.

Mulciber hesitated. "There has been some talk amongst the nobles who would support the Duke of Grimmauld," he confessed reluctantly. "It seems Lord Weasley may be facilitating some sort of alliance."

"Weasley? Impossible," Tom scoffed. "The man can barely feed himself and his seven hundred children, much less garner the means for arming his entire estate. If Weasley's involved, someone else is at the helm."

"The Peverell Duke himself, perhaps?" Lestrange interjected.

"Harry?" Tom echoed, and threw his head back, laughing. "My god, Rabastan, you've quite lost your mind. No," Tom ruled definitively, shaking his head. "The Duke of Grimmauld is a harmless irritation. A fly," he added, swatting vacantly, "but no tactician. Just monitor the situation," he advised with an air of finality.

"And Weasley?" Mulciber prompted.

Tom's smile twitched. "Perhaps a warning," he murmured. "Arthur is a reasonable man. Let him dip a toe, but remind him the consequences of getting his feet wet. A pity, really, that he has so many heirs," Tom lamented, tutting softly, and then abruptly brightened. "Of course, then, to lose one would be - "

He paused, teeth flashing. "Certainly statistically possible."

Hermione felt her brow twitch and furrow. _Was he -_

"Which son?" Mulciber asked impassively, his gaze sliding to Hermione's.

She fought a brief jolt in her chest - _he was._

"Oh, be creative, Mulciber," Tom replied. "There are twins, aren't there?" He shrugged. "That's just unnatural."

Hermione tried to take a breath but found it difficult; her pulse was distractingly loud. _Be careful with him,_ Minerva had said. _He's more than what he seems._

_More than, and less._

"Very well," Mulciber agreed, nodding once. "Consider it handled."

"I always do," Tom replied silkily. "Is that all?"

"It is," Mulciber said, recognizing the dismissal and rising to his feet. "Shall I - "

"You're free to leave, Mulciber," Tom said quickly. "Lestrange," he murmured. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind staying."

Mulciber frowned, hesitating, but the look in Tom's eye seemed to answer any lingering doubts. "Your Majesty," he said with a bow, backing towards the door.

"Go with him, Severus," Tom said, not taking his eyes from Lestrange's face. "Lady Hermione and I have some business to discuss with Rabastan."

Severus' dark eyes flitted impassively to Hermione's before he, too, rose to his feet, bowing. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, and then they were gone, and Hermione's pulse was racing.

"Rabastan," Tom began once the door was closed. "I wonder if you know anything of my relationship with Lady Hermione."

Lestrange stiffened, pointedly avoiding any contact with her. "I have some concept," he sniffed.

"Well," Tom continued, "perhaps you didn't know that I've become somewhat of a teacher for her."

Lestrange frowned. "Teacher?"

"Yes," Tom confirmed. "Would it be possible, Rabastan," he asked smoothly, "for me to use you for a lesson?"

"Your Majesty," Lestrange replied unevenly, and Hermione held her breath. "A lesson in - ?"

"Retribution?" Tom guessed, shrugging. "Comeuppance? Vengeance? Ah, no, I've got it," he declared, snapping his fingers and turning to smile encouragingly at Hermione. " _Control_."

She swallowed.

_Just because you can control something -_

"What?" Lestrange repeated, stammering. "I don't - vengeance, Your Majesty? What have I - "

Hermione, feeling a rush of something inexplicable, rose to her feet, suddenly breathless.

"What would you like me to do?" she asked, her voice scarcely over a whisper.

Tom leaned forward, curling a hand around his mouth as his blue eyes darkened with anticipation. "Do you remember, Hermione," he began, "when I taught you how to take a life?"

Lestrange's eyes widened. "Your Majesty," he said frantically, "I meant no harm - whatever I've done, surely it can be repaired - "

"The same principles apply for other types of power," Tom interrupted, ignoring him. "Imbue the object," he said, gesturing to Lestrange, "with a piece of yourself and then take it. Use it as if it were a limb of your own."

Hermione frowned, spellbound. "You want me to," she paused, frowning. "Do _what_ , exactly?"

"Well," Tom said. "Ultimately, you can do with him whatever you wish. But at the moment," he clarified, "I am teaching you how to possess his will. To give in to your _capriciousness,_ " he teased, winking at Lestrange, "and give Rabastan a bit more . . . direction."

Lestrange's knuckles whitened against the chair.

"Possess him," Hermione said, chewing her lip. "Control him?"

"Majesty," Lestrange babbled, "please, I - I don't - "

_Just because you can control something -_

"In every man there is a core to him," Tom explained, rising to his feet to step behind her, whispering in her ear. Lestrange tried to leap from his seat but was anchored to it, thick ropes of Tom's magic binding him where he sat. "There is a spark of his will that you can harness," Tom said, sending a shiver up her spine, " _if_ you make it yours."

"Tom," she began tentatively, wondering how to express how repugnant she found the concept; she faltered, though, when he reached up to tighten his grip on the back of her neck, drawing a careful line down the notches of her vertebrae.

"This is not a man whom you owe mercy," Tom assured her. "His use to me is minimal. His use to _society_ is minimal. His value to the world is - "

"Minimal?" Hermione guessed weakly. Tom laughed, biting lightly on her shoulder.

"He would take from you," Tom said. "Your pride, your worth. He would own them - own _you -_ simply because he thinks himself above you. But he is wrong, isn't he?" Tom whispered in her ear, his hands finding her hips. He was breathing hard, his voice strained, the prospect of her power driving him to something like arousal and she found herself caught, dissolving in his clutches.

"He's nothing like you, Hermione," Tom said in her ear. _Dissolve it to ash,_ she heard, _bend it to your will._ "He is at your mercy, like every other man - " he paused, his breath hitching. "Like I am, Hermione," he said urgently, his hands sloping over her chest and coveting her waist. "Like me."

_Just because you can control something -_

"What would I have to do?" she asked hoarsely, and Tom smiled into the crook of her neck.

* * *

The chapel was empty when Pansy entered; of course it was. It _was_ hers, after all. It was the Queen's chapel, and she was still Queen, even if her husband had been cloistered with another woman and the balance of her world was helplessly upended by a man whose very process of breathing threatened to ruin her upon impact.

She knelt stiffly, the bruises from her fall beginning to blossom, and bowed her head in some piteous imitation of prayer. She'd never been particularly religious, only ever feigning devotion, but it didn't seem to matter. Was there nothing she was not faking anymore? A mask was a mask.

She was still Queen, and the chapel was quiet, and fuck all else - she needed the solitude.

But then she wasn't alone.

"Should you be on your knees like that?" she heard behind her. Henry-called-Harry, the knave himself. "Personally I wouldn't complain," Harry drawled, "but you _did_ just suffer a fall."

She had her eyes closed, and she was grateful.

"How did you find me?" she asked dully.

She felt him stand beside her.

"I have a way with the castle," he said ambiguously.

She sighed.

"You're avoiding me," he commented.

"You shouldn't be here," she said.

Harry knelt beside her, ignoring her.

_Don't bend -_

"You _really_ shouldn't be here," she repeated.

He shrugged. "You're avoiding me," he said again.

"I'm not," she lied.

_Don't break -_

"You insult my powers of observation," he informed her, feigning injury.

"Forgive me, then," she muttered bluntly. She felt a motion from him - knew he was smiling at the reference - but he said nothing; she sighed again in helpless surrender.

"You won't stop, will you?"

He shook his head. "I'm told I'm criminally persistent."

"By whom?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm not a toy, Harry," she warned.

"No," he agreed, the smile fading. "You aren't."

_Don't bend -_

She bit her lip, turning her head to catch the outline of his face. "What is it you observe?" she asked, resigning herself to conversation.

She tried not to watch his tongue drag carefully across his lower lip. She failed.

He lifted his chin, turning to her. "About you?"

She nodded slowly.

_Don't break -_

"Everything," he told her, reaching for her fingers. She put her hand palm up - _don't -_ and he, a tiny motion pulling at the corners of his mouth, did the same, leaving a sliver of air that kept them from touching. "All of it."

"All of it?" Pansy echoed skeptically, eyeing the space between their hands.

_Don't._

"The poise, the elegance. That's your facade," he said pointedly, and she made a face. "The fire, the spirit," he added, his fingers twitching towards hers. "That's your concealed blade. Your weapon."

_Don't._

"I don't have a weapon," Pansy reminded him. "I'm not privy to your handbook."

"Of roguery?" he clarified, grinning.

"Of roguery," she confirmed, rolling her eyes.

"You absolutely _do_ have a weapon," he told her seriously. "Because you have anger, and pain, and you could gut me and everyone else like a fish if you ever wanted to," he added emphatically, "but you don't. You wouldn't. Because you are strong and you're brave, and you're cunning and careful - and you're clever and quick and - "

Time stopped; _don't don't don't -_

"Beautiful," he murmured, and she wondered if he could see her fingers shaking.

She felt faint, felt foolish and light-headed and weak and she inadvertently swayed forward, her hand coming to rest, with the softest possible pressure, against his. At the contact, his chest constricted, his breath caught; he gripped her fingers and pulled her against him, his hands on her waist as he lowered his head, her heart thudding so percussively she swore she could see the earth shaking as his lips met hers.

 _Don't,_ she wanted to say, _don't -_

But she kissed him instead, gave in; ground her hips against his and let him reach behind her head, tugging her hair loose and burying his fingers in it, letting his mouth travel hungrily to her neck, to the curves of her breasts.

_Don't, don't, don't -_

"Don't stop," she gasped, and he yanked her to her feet, pressing her back to the cold stone wall, his hands fidgeting with her skirt. He kissed her until she felt feverish, touched her until she thought she might burn.

"I won't fail you," he promised her, breaking the kiss to let his breath dance across the swell of her lips. "Pansy, I swear, I will never fail you - "

"Fail me or don't, just don't stop," she gasped, and he grinned, his fingers tracing the inside of her thigh as he nudged her legs apart, his other hand pressed to her back, holding her tight against him.

* * *

There was a glowing ball of _something,_ a glimmer that was the core of Rabastan Lestrange, and it had come loose at Hermione's touch, her fingers shaking as she'd drawn it out of him, letting whatever it was - his consciousness, his will, his _being_ \- float in the space between them.

"Take it," Tom breathed in her ear. "It's yours."

_Just because you can control something -_

"Is this wrong?" Hermione rasped. "Tom, isn't this - isn't there something _horrible_ about this?"

"Something horrible about using a man who stands against you for your blood?" Tom asked bluntly. "Who opposes your gender, your status, your rise - simply because he has the privilege of genetics?" He scoffed loudly. "Rabastan is of an archaic realm of thought. He's more useful to me in the palm of your hand than he is walking around freely. And anyway, I'd kill him," Tom added, shrugging, "but he's not without his uses." He leaned over, brushing two fingers against her cheek. "If, that is," he added softly, "he were serving _your_ needs."

"What would I use him for?" Hermione asked, frowning. "I have no reason for a - a _shell_ of a man - "

"You most certainly do," Tom retorted firmly. "A Lestrange taking your side would do a fair amount to turn the tide of favor. His support could mean a great deal for you, Hermione."

She bit her lip, still watching the glow that occupied the space between her and Lestrange's stiffly inanimate chest.

"Tell him to breathe," Tom mused, and Hermione was abruptly shaken.

"What?"

"Tell him to breathe," Tom repeated, and then smiled. "Or tell him to _stop_ breathing," he suggested alternatively, his lips resting behind her ear. "Tell his heart to stop beating, even. Tell his veins to collapse, his lungs to puncture, or his intestines to fail," he murmured. "Detach his limbs - "

"Tom," Hermione cut in sharply, horrified, and turned to find him laughing.

"Just trying to make it easier, sweetheart," he assured her, kissing the back of her neck. "You have to want it," he whispered, his lips replaced with teeth, his sharp-edged canines digging into her skin.

_Just because you can control something -_

But Tom was right, wasn't he?

_Just because you can -_

She did need an ally.

_Just because -_

She closed her eyes. Opened them.

There was a moment of suction, a stillness, and then she collected Lestrange's strange pale glow in her palm, watching it spread across her knuckles and still itself in her fingers, sinking into her bloodstream.

"Stand," she instructed, and Lestrange stood, blinking slowly, his head tilted like a boneless rag doll. She flexed her fingers, awed; it felt good. It felt _good_. But it wasn't - it wasn't _enough_. She felt her expression tighten, something constricting in her chest; a tap in her mind, a whisper. A ghost of a command that festered - an urge, a need, a _demand_ -

"Do it," Tom advised in her ear, and she grimaced.

" _Bow,_ " she gritted out, and Lestrange instantly sank, his head nearly hitting the table as he finally, _finally_ gave her her due, bent at the waist and then frozen as she held her breath, something inside her soaring, flaming, _exalting_ , the immensity of her newfound satisfaction settling itself at the pit of her stomach; something gutting and enriching in one expertly dealt blow.

And then the rush of blood in her ears slowed, the strident noise of her beating heart the only audible sound in the room.

"Lestrange," she said to him, hearing an odd metallic quality in her voice as he straightened, acknowledging her. "When I am mentioned, you will not speak against me. You will acknowledge my rank. You will bow when required, you will yield to my judgment, and you will protect me. You will _inform_ me," she added. "When others speak against me, you will report to me. You will be loyal to me." She paused, watching him. "Do you understand?"

Lestrange nodded slowly, a vacant look in his eye.

"Good. Now _leave_ ," she muttered, and he bowed once - _finally, finally_ \- and then was gone, the doors falling shut behind him.

For a moment, it was silent. And then -

"What did I just do?" she asked hoarsely, and Tom turned her to face him.

"You saw an advantage and you took it," he said, with a sense of triumph on his features that she wished she hadn't known she felt. "You've won."

"This isn't war, Tom," Hermione argued, shaking her head. "I wasn't - this isn't what I _want._ "

"Isn't it?" he asked, and she closed her eyes, not sure she knew the answer. "You think you want goodness," he mused coldly. "You think you know what's right." He laughed again, alarmingly, and coiled his fingers in her hair. "You have no idea what you're capable of - what you could _be_ \- if you simply relinquished your unyielding hold on foolish beliefs that there is a right and wrong, or dark and light - "

"I wasn't - " She swallowed, faltering. "This isn't - this wasn't what I wanted to _learn -_ "

"You don't want to learn," he corrected sharply, and she opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. "You wanted _me_. And you _have_ me," he told her. "You possess me entirely," he growled, pulling her impossibly close. She sank into him, the lines between them molten and blurred until he was more a part of her than even the blood in her veins, dissolving exquisitely in his hold.

"You don't want softness, Hermione," Tom whispered to her, his lips buried in the line of her collarbone as he backed her against the table. "You want a love that feels like rage."

She closed her eyes, twisting her fingers in his hair and applying pressure to the base of his neck before letting them flutter open again, staring at him. "No, I don't want softness," she agreed, letting him draw one leg over his hip. "I want a love," she said in his ear, "a love that has _consequences_ , and one that I build from nothing - that I cobble together with my bare hands," she forced through gritted teeth, gasping a little as he took hold of her chin and turned her head, pressing his lips to the column of her throat. "I want a love that rips me apart while I bleed for it," she panted, "while I tear the world apart for it" - a growl ripped itself from her throat, animalistic and raw - "while I _claw for it_ on my knees - "

"I can give you that," Tom hissed, digging his nails into her hips as he pressed his lips to the hollow of her chest, the pounding of her heart. "I can give you a love that breaks the bones and hearts and wills of everyone on earth," he swore, "that tears the _fucking world_ apart before it is ever diminished - "

"You're like a sickness," Hermione told him, feeling him rut against her and tilting her head back, letting his teeth scrape over the curve of her breast. "Your love," she muttered as he tightened his grip on her waist, "is a _curse._ "

"Are you cursed, then?" Tom asked, more to the distance between them than to her, more to the thudding of her heart that seemed to ricochet around the room than to the slow fall of her eyelids, the haze of her that met his gaze.

"I want a love that is bigger than me," she whispered, "and _meaner_ , too." He slipped a hand between her legs; preparing her, parting her. "I want a love - " she started, and gasped, faltering as he moved to fill her; slowly at first, and then all at once. "A love that feels like you," she choked out, dragging her thumb across his lip. "Like fire and ruination, and - " she sank her teeth into his shoulder, swallowing a laugh as she drew blood; at the evidence that she could make him bleed. "And fucking _sacrifice_ \- "

"I will give you everything," he told her, his blue eyes dark with promise as he met her gaze with fierceness, with an inescapable desperation. "Everything I have. Everything you want - "

"Everything," she repeated, the word slipping out in a moan. "I want it," she said, short of breath as he moved his hips against hers. "I want all of you, Tom."

"Everything," he swore, staring down at her face. "If I glorify in riches, it will be for you," he forced out, twisting his fingers in her curls. "If I am lauded in victory, it will be _yours_ \- "

"If you find your crown is heavy," she whispered, and his lips curled up in a smile.

"I will share the weight with you," he said, and she gasped into his mouth.

* * *

Harry's hands were everywhere, relentless, as unyielding as he was and just as undeniable; the heat of his touch burned from her hair to her face to her ribs and waist and hips and then he was pressing her back against the cold stone wall, a jarring clash of sensations as a chill flew up her spine, a strike of warning that fluttered vacantly in her mind but she was too far gone - too much, too fast, _too far -_

Her better judgment roared; her body sang.

She clutched at him desperately, feeling off balance, and he drew back for a moment, for a breath.

"Pansy," he whispered. "Pansy, I've - I've _dreamed_ of this - of _you_ -"

"Harry," she said tentatively, her fingers shaking around his jaw, not sure she could admit that she had, too - that he'd tormented her, night after night from the day they'd first spoken, from the moment she'd seen him, from the instant she'd looked at his face and registered that the rich green of his eyes had made her feel pale by comparison. That she'd been alone and unwanted and unloved and this - _this,_ _him_ , _everything_ \- if it went any faster or any further she might crumble beneath it, might dissolve to wretched pieces - that he might lessen her to nothing if he ever _let go_ -

"Pansy," he murmured back, his fingers tightly coiled in the silk of her skirts. "Pansy, you have to - to tell me," he begged. "If you want this, I need you to - "

"I want you," she confessed with a shudder, her voice barely audible as she clung to him, suddenly nervous and lost and _so badly wanting,_ so clumsily bared that she thought the words alone might destroy her; but then the tips of his fingers traced the line of her thigh and he drew his hand up - _up, up, up_ \- she was shaking violently, barely standing on her own.

He shifted her in his arms, pushing the heavy skirt of her gown up and back and lifting her, settling her legs over his hips - as though she weighed nothing at all, as though she were a petal in his hands, delicate and fragile and _afloat_ \- and she could feel him against her, her heart pounding in her throat. She knew it was wrong - everything about it was wrong, the man the place the decision it was _all wrong_ \- but she couldn't fight it and so she tugged his lips back to hers, burying herself in the feel of them, the wrong cruelly resigning itself to _right_ as she rigidly gave in, bone by bone, longing tapping its way down each of her aching ribs until it settled gracelessly at her core.

The kiss shifted, molted, _changed_ , and when he said her name again there was an unmistakable grit to it, a fight; _Pansy,_ he said, but she could feel resolve, taste his mettle, know with an unholy certainty that he would not let her go, would not let go, _would not ever let go_ -

She reached down, wanting to feel him; she marveled for a moment that she had ever had to ask Daphne how to please her husband when she was _so certain_ with Harry what came next, what she should do, how she should feel; she fumbled with the fabric and then drew her hand along his cock, saturating the tips of her fingers with the slickness that was already forming at his tip.

He groaned, throwing his head back, his unruly hair in chaos as his green eyes found hers, lids half-shut and pupils blown. She met his gaze, speechless, and he shifted back, his hands returning to the curves of her thighs. He moved slowly, carefully, tracing delicate patterns on her skin until his fingers found their way to her cunt, burying themselves inside her; she cried out, gasping, and a smile pulled at his lips.

"Your Majesty," he whispered, and then, slowly - reverently - he lowered himself to his knees.

Pansy's heart raced, stuttered, leapt - and then Harry's mouth was on her, his fingers still inside her, pulsing and diving and making a ruin of her, making a _spectacle_ of her, leaving her flushed and disarrayed and frantic. He gripped her hips, adjusting his shoulders to widen her legs and then meeting her eyes again as his tongue flicked tauntingly over her -

No, not tauntingly. _Promisingly._ A taste.

She gasped.

He repeated the motion - once, twice, again, again, _faster_ , more, a different motion, a different pace, and then _again_ , again - and then he was sucking at her, licking, his fingers digging into her thighs almost painfully, as though he couldn't get closer, couldn't get _enough._ She twisted her fingers in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer - _Harry Harry Harry, yesyesyes never stop, please never stop, pleasepleaseplease, Harry -_ and when she came, violently, she half expected to have shriveled to skin and bone, sensation flooding her body.

But then he was on his feet and she was reaching for him; he picked her up again, gave her another slam against the wall - _I'm sorry but I can't - you're too - I don't - you're so - dreamed of this, Pansy, dreamed you just like this -_ and then he was fucking _inside her,_ and he was _fucking her,_ and with every motion of his hips she could feel her heart shouting _mistake, mistake, mistake_ and still she pulled him closer, held him tighter, buried a whimper in the side of his neck and then sank her teeth into the curve of his shoulder, tasting sweat and licking the damning salt of it from her lips.

When it was over - when they were both sinfully rewarded and Harry collapsed against her, barely holding them up, sinking with her to the floor and pressing his lips to her forehead as though she were delicate, fragile, _afloat_ \- she wanted to laugh, to sob, to scream, because he'd been right.

_A pretty stillness has nothing on a storm._

* * *

"Lord Lestrange," Hermione said, smiling sweetly at him and offering him her most grateful curtsy. "How are you this evening?"

 _You will carry on as normal,_ she instructed him, _but you will remark upon my presence as a privilege._

"I'm very well, My Lady," Lestrange replied, dipping his head. "You honor me with your attention."

_Invite Lucius Malfoy to the conversation._

"My Lord Malfoy," Lestrange said, turning to Lucius. "Tell me, have you spent much time with Lady Hermione?"

Lucius looked momentarily confused; behind him, Hermione watched the younger Malfoy narrow his eyes, openly defiant.

"I have not," Lucius confessed, arching a brow. He bowed to her; perfunctory, without grace. "I did not realize you enjoyed each other's company, Rabastan."

_Compliment me._

"On the contrary," Lestrange said. "I find Lady Hermione to be quite an intriguing conversationalist."

"So does the King," Draco muttered under his breath. Hermione smiled icily at him.

"The King _does_ enjoy my conversation, Lord Malfoy," Hermione said. "In fact, he asked me to a meeting this afternoon. Didn't he, Lord Lestrange?"

_Spare any details._

"Yes, he did," Lestrange replied, without elaboration. Hermione caught a look of dismay that fluttered across Lucius' face.

_Wait - comment on Malfoy's absence._

"Funny, Lucius, that Mulciber and I did not see you in the meeting," Lestrange said. "Don't tell me you've done something to upset him" - _again_ , Hermione thought recklessly, testing the waters - "again?"

Lucius' face paled; Hermione fought a smile. Given his insufferable pliability, she'd pinned him - correctly - as a man with prior offenses.

Behind his father, Draco's expression turned curious, his gaze traveling between Hermione's barely restrained amusement and Lestrange's vacant blankness. Hermione, catching it, cleared her throat, garnering Lucius' attention; there was no way Draco could know, of course, and _certainly_ no way to prove anything, but still -

"Perhaps next time, Lord Malfoy," Hermione offered kindly. "Maybe His Majesty simply wanted to include those with whom I am already acquainted."

Lucius' mouth twitched, registering her intent. "If that is the case, Lady Hermione, then it would certainly behoove me to enjoy your company," he remarked, and when he offered her a bow in farewell, she noted with a thrill of pleasure that it had deepened.

She smiled to herself, turning away. _Go mingle,_ she told Lestrange, who promptly turned to do so, making his way across the room.

She caught Tom's eye - _well?_ he mouthed, and at her beatific smile, he raised a glass in congratulations - and then abruptly collided with Draco's chest, taking a startled step backwards.

"Apologies," Draco said loudly, and then dropped his voice, his grey eyes diminishing to slits of hardened skepticism. "What did you do to Lestrange?" he hissed, his lips scarcely moving. "My father might be desperate enough to be fooled, but I know you've done something. What leverage do you have over him?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, My Lord," Hermione returned, offering him a shallow curtsy. "Perhaps you are overtired."

"Perhaps _you_ ought to remember your place," he huffed under his breath. "What are you plotting, Granger?"

The idea that she would have ever answered that question - and for _him_ , of all people - was so thoroughly misguided that she had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Nothing," Hermione said coolly, and felt a pleasurable rush of ice course through her veins. "Nothing at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday oblivionbaby!


	10. Watch the Throne

**Chapter 10: Watch the Throne**

"How are you liking Rabastan's newfound change of heart?" Tom asked, his fingers dropping to surreptitiously brush hers as they walked. "I'm told he has quite the improved disposition."

Hermione hid a smile. "He does seem to harbor a more savory optimism towards me as of late, doesn't he?" she agreed, and Tom passed her a knowing smirk. "I think the elder Lord Malfoy is newly taken himself," she added, unable to prevent the smugness that had crept into her tone at the thought of Draco's sullen glare, furiously watching his father brush his lips against her hand.

To her surprise, Tom paused, frowning momentarily.

"Malfoy?" he echoed, studying her. "You haven't - "

"No, I haven't," she assured him quickly. "Not like with Lestrange. I seem to have won him over by other means," she clarified, and Tom arched a brow, his lips curling up indolently.

"Should I be concerned?" he teased, his gaze flicking pointedly over the cut of her bodice. "I won't have to share you, will I?"

"Says the man already in possession of a wife," Hermione reminded him, and the king's mirth quickly faded, replaced by a sudden flash of displeasure.

"Hermione," he began warningly, but she shook her head, grimacing slightly at the misstep.

"I'm not provoking you," she assured him, careful to keep her voice light. "I just felt it worth a mention, that's all."

He paused for a moment, considering her response, and then shrugged, gradually returning to a coy state of normalcy. "Fair enough," he ruled, and took her arm to continue walking. "Tell me, then," he prompted, "what sorts of means have you employed, my little lioness?"

"Hardly any now that Lestrange has risen to the occasion," she replied sincerely, thinking again of how quick the elder Malfoy had been to pay her what was a previously unimaginable level of indulgence since she'd taken control of Lestrange. "I have to wonder," she mused, "what terrible thing has Lucius done to you that's made him so desperate for your approval?"

"This is about me?" Tom asked, surprised, and she passed him a look of impatience.

"Isn't everything?" she retorted, and he flashed her a silky grin, luxuriating in it. "He's using me to regain your favor, I believe," she continued, "and has a very sad lack of shame about it, in my view."

"Well, that's Lucius," Tom agreed, shaking his head and chuckling. "So," he ventured, "I take it you've won him over with your natural charm, then?"

"Yes, and haven't broken a sweat," Hermione joked, her breath catching as Tom suddenly turned towards her, pressing her back against the wall of the corridor. She gasped, startled, and he gave a soundless laugh, his lips brushing the line of her cheek as he leaned towards her.

"Would you like to?" he murmured, his voice low in her ear.

Hermione feigned a sigh, resting her hands against him and letting her fingers spread enticingly across his abdomen. "Careful," she warned, looking up at him through her lashes. "Don't get your hopes up," she said, "or anything else." He grimaced at the reference, and she fought a smile. "If I let you have me every time you wished it, Tom, you'd only tire of me."

He groaned quietly, aligning his hips with hers. "Impossible," he muttered, but he allowed her to continue trifling with him, playing at impassivity. "Does it entertain you, being so cruel?" he asked, dropping his lips to her neck. "Do you toy with me for pleasure, Hermione," he asked, kissing the side of her throat, "or does my misery sustain you?"

She smiled down at the top of his head. "Neither," she murmured, and then laughed, pushing him away to take his hand and lure him behind her as she continued down the hall. "Or both, perhaps," she amended, knowing his gaze was on her swaying hips.

"You're a demon, you know," he told her with a smile, and then he yanked her in closer, slipping one arm around her waist. "Impossible to resist."

"Surely you can wait a matter of hours, can't you, Your Majesty?" Hermione taunted, and Tom shook his head with a growl, leaning in for a kiss that was promptly cut off by a small but adamant throat-clearing cough.

"Your Majesty," Pettigrew ventured nervously, offering him an exceedingly low bow as Severus rounded the corner behind him, bearing his usual scowl. "Apologies, I know you're very busy - "

"Yes, quite," Tom retorted flatly, sighing in exasperation as he slowly released Hermione's waist. "What is it?"

"Well, Your Majesty," Pettigrew chattered, "it's only that - "

"Not you," Tom snapped, nodding to Severus. "What is it?" he repeated, and Severus pursed his lips, clearly not thrilled to be forced to deliver the message.

"It's the Duke of Grimmauld, Your Majesty," he supplied in a low mutter. "He's presently in a bit of a - " he paused, grimacing. "Stir."

"Something worth mentioning?" Tom prompted doubtfully, and Severus' expression soured.

"Only that he seems intent on - "

"TOM," Harry bellowed, rounding the corner and shoving Severus and Pettigrew out of the way. "Do you really think you can just - "

"Harry," Tom interrupted, glaring sharply at him. " _Surely_ you've not suffered some sort of horrific head injury and forgotten what sort of consequences there are for making threats against your King," he said, his voice clipped as he took a step towards Harry. "The doctor or the dungeons," he murmured in the younger man's ear. "Your choice."

Hermione watched Harry grit his teeth, furious. "Your Majesty," he said, offering as perfunctory a bow as Hermione had ever witnessed, "I want an audience."

"You have one," Tom reminded him, gesturing around him to Hermione, Severus, and Pettigrew. "I would be very careful what you choose to say next, Your Grace."

"A _private_ audience," Harry forced out, glaring up at him. "Please," he added, though he looked decidedly miserable about including the nicety.

Tom paused for a moment, deliberating purposefully as he subjected the other man to the whims of his authority - a game, Hermione recognized with irritation, that Pansy was often quick to play with her - before conceding to wave a hand, dismissing Severus. "You're free to go," he said flippantly. "And take Pettigrew with you."

Severus nodded slowly, bowing to Tom and then glaring warningly at Harry before walking away, leaving Pettigrew to scurry after in his wake.

Harry's eyes flicked to Hermione. "Lady Hermione," he began, not impolitely, though she noted he didn't quite meet her eye. "If you wouldn't mind - "

"I haven't asked her to leave," Tom cut in sharply, "and I don't wish her to. If you have something to say to me, Harry, you can say it in front of her." He paused, forcing a cutting smile. "Though you should have a care to whatever you say regardless," he added, with an undertone of warning.

"Does she know you had Fred killed, then?" Harry snapped, and Tom blinked, his smile wavering a fraction of a degree as Hermione willed her own expression not to falter, presuming Fred to be the 'unnatural twin' Tom had referenced to Mulciber.

"That's quite an accusation," Tom replied, his tone so icy Hermione nearly shuddered from the chill. "I hope you have some evidence to support your claim."

"You know I don't," Harry returned flatly. "But I know your handiwork when I see it."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Tom drawled, arching a brow. "I suspect your grief has gotten the better of you, Harry."

At that - the blatant denial which, to some degree, had felt absurdly confessional - the other man's expression hardened; it was the first time that Harry had ever seemed to Hermione to be anything other than buoyantly knavish. He took a step towards Tom - a motion that Hermione was surprised Tom seemed to permit, bristling once but saying nothing - and glared up at him, setting his jaw in consummate rebellion.

"All men face consequences, Tom," Harry said bitterly. "Even men that wear crowns."

It was the boldest thing Hermione had ever seen anyone say to Tom, and she was unsurprised to see the King's mouth contort in poorly concealed fury.

"Imagine the consequences for those without, then," Tom cautioned venomously, and Harry, who appeared to have reached his breaking point, pivoted where he stood, turning his back on Tom to exit the corridor at a sharply determined pace.

"Harry," Tom snarled after him; a warning. The other man paused, slowly turning back around.

"Your Majesty," Harry gritted out, with the most derisive show of obedience he could muster. He kept his gaze matched with Tom's as he bowed, not bothering to hide the loathing lined in his brow, and tossed Hermione a brisk, inexplicably disapproving nod before departing, his quick stride echoing behind him as he disappeared from sight.

"Well," Hermione said, exhaling slowly as he went. "That was - "

She paused, glancing at Tom; his mouth twitched with displeasure, anger sparking around his knuckles. She reached out, gripping his hand; she took hold of her own stillness and used it to soothe him, floating over him like a current until the tension in his shoulders had faded, reduced to a low, measured pulse.

"He angers you," she remarked, but Tom didn't respond, hatred still gnashed between his teeth. "You know as well as I do you could simply be rid of him," she commented, and Tom abruptly turned, yanking himself out of her hold.

"I've told you, politics are sensitive where it comes to Harry," Tom seethed. "I'd have to have a legitimate reason to get rid of him," he ranted, "and one that wouldn't give his allies a reason to rebel, or else there would only be more problems."

"Why not simply do to Harry what I did to Lestrange?" Hermione asked neutrally. "Obviously you've done it before," she added, "so surely it would be easier to - "

"I can't," Tom cut in, clenching his fists. "I _tried_ ," he added, flashing her a glare at the reminder, "but there must be something in his blood, something preventing me from possessing him, and I don't know what it is."

Hermione frowned. "Is he - " she gestured to herself, holding out her palms. "Can he do what we can?"

"No," Tom said, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that nobody was listening. "I don't think so. He's never shown any sign of it, and I would think by now he would have."

Hermione paused, tapping her mouth thoughtfully as she considered Tom's options. "You see your court like pieces on a chessboard," she commented slowly, eyeing him. "If Diagon is your game, then what piece is Harry?"

"Not a pawn, unfortunately," Tom growled, stiffening. "Much as I wish he were."

"Well, he can't be moved at will, clearly," Hermione noted, gesturing to where Harry had been, and where Tom was still staring furiously. "But if he's not an asset, then he's a threat," she determined, "and you're better off rid of him."

"I'm aware," Tom muttered, and angled himself to face her. "The problem is that he isn't without support, even if it is just a spattering of worthless nobles here and there. It would be simpler if he were isolated, or even disliked, but he's - " he stopped, glowering. "Charismatic," he spat miserably, and arched a brow at her. "Haven't you said so yourself?"

"But if you had a reason to be rid of him," Hermione pressed. "Surely you would have just cause for arrest, at least, if you were able to do more than simply _suspect_ him of treason, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Tom agreed, "but as much as I hate to admit it" - he grimaced reflexively, supporting the statement's veracity - "Harry's not totally without sense. If I haven't caught him yet, I doubt I'm likely to."

Hermione paused for a moment, considering her next move.

"What if," she murmured, "I kept an eye on him for you?"

"I doubt he'd chance any false steps in front of you," Tom said listlessly, but Hermione held up her hand, pausing him.

"You forget, Tom, that the women of your court are embroiled in a different game altogether," she said slowly. "Perhaps there's something you've been missing."

Tom eyed her for a moment, pausing, as though he were seeing her anew; then he took a step towards her, sliding the backs of his fingers along the edge of her cheek before curling them under her chin, drawing her lips towards his.

"I expect there were a number of things I was missing before I found you," he said gratefully, and his hands found her waist again, closing the distance between them.

* * *

_There are only two reasons men do anything,_ Pansy heard her father say. _Power, and love._

She sat at her husband's right hand, as tradition dictated, but watched with discomfort as he leaned towards where Hermione was settled far too comfortably on his left, her too-sharp eyes glinting as he murmured something in her ear.

 _Power and love_ , Pansy thought, and wondered, for the first time, whether she had more to fear than simply losing Tom's affection.

"I hear she's taking meetings with you," Pansy had said to Tom the night before, watching Hermione delicately place her hand on Lucius Malfoy's arm to let him escort her to her table.

It had been a far more disconcerting moment than it appeared on the surface; innocent as it seemed, Pansy knew the interaction was no simple matter. The Malfoys were Loyalists; for Lucius to openly throw his preference to the King's mistress rather than the Queen before the entirety of the court was, well -

Unstomachable.

It had been comforting, at least, albeit not entirely helpful, that Draco's sharp grey eyes had followed his father's movements with displeasure. His scowl deepened tellingly as he turned to Mulciber beside him, the two men exchanging a questioning glance.

"Are you jealous, Pansy?" Tom asked drily. "Not a good look for you." He raised his wine to his lips, glancing askance. "It doesn't suit your complexion."

Pansy held back a retort, forcing herself not to rise to what had been a fairly childish taunt. "It's not a matter of jealousy," she said, aiming for evenness. "I simply wanted to remind you that if you're looking for a woman's perspective, I am - "

"You're _Queen_ , Pansy," Tom interrupted irritably. "I'm King." He took a sip of his wine, letting it marinate on his tongue before turning back to her. "We operate in separate arenas, as I'm certain you're aware. You have your own obligations," he finished carelessly, shrugging once.

"So you would give her the powers of a King, then," Pansy pointed out, taking a bold step in the dance. "Do you wonder, Tom," she asked softly, "that if you give her power, she may never stop craving it?" She raised her own glass to her lips, using the motion to conceal the anger that had buried itself in the lines of her mouth. "Who's to say she won't come to covet your crown herself, Tom?"

He scoffed. "I have no such insecurities."

"And I do?" Pansy prompted. It was another leap forward when she should have succumbed to a bow, she knew, but to her surprise, Tom turned to her with a chilling smile.

"You do," he said, "and you should." He angled himself towards her, keeping his voice low. "Your place at court is hardly as secure as you imagine."

Pansy turned to look at him, leaning in to make the altercation look like affection to the rest of the court. "Is that a threat, Your Majesty?" she whispered, and at the proximity of her lips to his - at the sudden rapturous attention of his court below, Hermione included - Tom promptly leaned back, stiffening in his seat.

"We'll talk later," he said abruptly, and he'd said nothing else until he'd arrived in her chambers that evening, casting Daphne out of the room with a glare as though she were little more than a puppet on strings; as though she, like everything else in his world, were an obstacle to be removed at will.

"Tom," Pansy acknowledged, dropping into a curtsy. "Shall I undress?" she prompted insincerely, with perhaps more boldness than she might have otherwise ventured if she hadn't felt Harry's eyes on her all night, following her every motion. _Stop,_ she'd warned from afar, but he'd only smiled.

"I worry, _wife,_ that you've forgotten your purpose in this arrangement," Tom replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he addressed her.

"Have I?" Pansy asked demurely. "I'm Queen," she ventured, shrugging. "Or have _you_ forgotten?"

At the instant rage in Tom's posture, she could see she'd been too bold; it seemed Harry's tiny mutinies were unwisely infectious.

"May I remind you that the crown you so foolishly cling to was never your birthright," Tom hissed, his blue eyes flashing as he took several strides forward, cornering her against the post of her bed. "Your possession of it is hardly faultless, Pansy."

"If there was a flaw in its bestowal, then the error is yours, not mine," Pansy returned, careful not to let her temper bleed through her mask as she lowered her gaze, artfully mimicking humility. "I'm your wife, Tom, and your Queen, and - " She bit her tongue, hesitating, but let it slip. "And you've misjudged me poorly if you think I'd let you take either away from me," she finished, glancing up to meet his eye.

She could feel him, searing, like flame incarnate even from afar.

"Don't test my patience, wife," Tom warned in a low voice. "I put the crown on your head, Pansy, and I can take it back just as easily."

"Take it back?" Pansy echoed, fighting a rush of bitterness at the threat. "Are you sure, Tom?" she pressed, steadfastly meeting his eye. "Are you quite sure you wish to chance making an enemy of _me_ ," she challenged, "when you already have such a volatile court to contend with?"

He stepped forward so sharply that Pansy had to fight not to flinch, certain he was about to strike her; but then he backed her against the wall, the rise and fall of his chest the only motion filling the space between them.

"I'm not your enemy, Pansy, and you are not mine," he said, his mouth tightening cruelly as his voice sliced between them, edged with a terrible anger. "Don't let your pride make a fool of you. This, I assure you," he added, his glare unflinching as he gestured between them, "is not a war you want to wage."

 _Don't bend,_ she thought, _don't break -_

"You're my husband," she told him carefully. "I never asked for a war."

"Then I would urge you to remember that," he spat, "as you would not emerge from it the victor." His gaze slid down the side of her face, lingering around her throat before rising again to meet hers with steady deliberation, something suddenly changing in his eyes.

"Such a slender neck for such a heavy crown," he whispered, sliding his thumb around the base of it.

Pansy held her breath, feeling her pulse stutter beneath his touch and being reminded, unnervingly, just why the dance had always been a necessity. Kings had disposed of wives before, she knew, and this King in particular would have no trouble with it. His conscience would hardly be burdened by the loss, and that would always gave him an edge, whether she wished to admit it or not.

 _But I say you can cause more damage,_ she heard Harry say in her ear, _with the element of surprise -_

 _You're careful,_ he murmured, _and cunning -_

"Forgive me, Tom," she forced herself to say, wetting her lips and dragging a rasp from her throat. "I overstepped."

He stepped back, breathing hard, and shook his head. "Forgiven," he pronounced crisply.

But he had left with Hermione on his arm, and the fear that Pansy had clearly been meant to suffer from the encounter had bubbled to a troubling ire, leaving her shaking in its wake.

"Pansy," Harry had said the next morning, trying again to catch her as she'd made her way through the castle. "Pansy, please," he whispered, reaching for her. "I have to see you again - "

"Can't," she returned, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder.

"Can't?" Harry pressed. "Or won't?"

"Does it matter?" Pansy snapped, and dragged herself from his grasp, willing herself to abandon the memory of his touch.

It wasn't easy to forget him; impossible, in fact, to be rid of him, and now, as she forced herself to look away from where Harry sat at a distance to glance at where her husband was seated with his consort - both of them certainly finding Pansy to be a troubling growth, an unnecessary offshoot they wished to excise - more than a small piece of her wanted to leap onto the table and throw herself into his arms, begging him to take her away.

But the crown, of course, kept her rooted.

 _There are only two reasons men do anything,_ Pansy heard her father say again. _Power, and love._

She looked at Tom, looked at her rival; she counted the admirers, weighed them against the threats.

 _Power,_ she thought again, _and love,_ and knew only one was attainable.

 _Love he'll have to give,_ Pansy realized, feeling something nudge at her chest, _but power is meant to be taken._

* * *

_Say hello,_ Hermione commanded silently, and Lestrange turned to offer her a bow.

"Lady Hermione," he said brightly. "A pleasure."

 _Too much,_ she thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes as he promptly toned down his enthusiasm. "Lord Lestrange," she acknowledged, and turned to the others. "Ah, Lord Malfoy, how nice to see you again."

"Lady Hermione," Lucius said in greeting, offering her a bow. He gave his son a sharp nudge, forcing him to bow as well. "And how are you this evening, My Lady?"

"Quite well," she said, suppressing a laugh as Draco glowered. "In fact, I was thinking - "

"Ah, Your Majesty," Lucius interrupted hastily, his eyes widening as he dropped into a second, somewhat deeper bow. Hermione turned, expecting Tom, and was surprised to see Pansy standing there, her dark eyes narrowed in apparent interest.

"Lord Malfoy," Pansy said neutrally, and tilted her head, acknowledging Draco beside him. "Ah, and the younger Lord Malfoy," she offered, her voice faintly musical as she gestured to him. "Tell me, is Lord Nott feeling better?"

"Yes, much," Draco supplied. "He was displeased to miss last week's ride, I think, and is in a hurry to recover."

"You mean he was displeased to miss my horse's rejection of me," Pansy corrected drily, permitting a rare smile. "I'm afraid I remain rather thrilled he was otherwise occupied," she added, in what Hermione realized with surprise was meant to be a joke.

"A small thing, really, considering the way you disarmed Potter," Draco returned appreciatively, and Hermione, who had not heard of such an occurrence, forced herself to hide a frown. "I'm afraid it'll take more than a spooked horse to convince us you're anything short of capable, Your Majesty."

"You flatter, Lord Malfoy," Pansy remarked. "It'll get you everywhere."

Draco laughed, as did his father, and Hermione quickly instructed Lestrange to laugh as well, blending in with the others. She regretted, however, that her momentary pause had prompted Pansy's attention to slide to her; Hermione hastily forced something she hoped was an agreeable smile, despite being immediately certain she hadn't quite managed it.

"Lady Hermione," Pansy said, turning slowly towards her. "I'm afraid I have a pin loose. Could you check it?" she asked impassively, and Hermione's cheeks burned, recognizing the flex of authority and the episode that would undoubtedly result.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hermione forced out, dropping into a curtsy that made her knees weak with frustration. "Where?"

"Just here," Pansy said, gesturing. "Right underneath my crown," she clarified, and Hermione could see, catching the flash in the other woman's dark eyes, that it was no coincidence that she'd come over in the first place.

Hermione nodded, taking a step; she gingerly felt around for the pins holding Pansy's hair in place and made a weak imitation of securing them, knowing that the exercise was in vain. Hannah had done the Queen's hair perfectly, as she always did; the request had had far less to do with the pins themselves, Hermione knew, than it did with the person assigned to fix them.

It seemed, unfortunately, that Pansy knew more about her place in court than Hermione had given her credit for, and it was hard not to feel a fool in the process.

"Apologies, Lords Malfoy, Lestrange," Pansy said, stiffly nodding to the extent permitted while Hermione's fingers were in her hair, "perhaps you wouldn't mind leaving us to our women's work?"

"Not at all," Draco assured her, and they left with their respective bows, Pansy and Hermione remaining in their wake.

"Clever," Hermione murmured to her, and Pansy quietly laughed.

"I've no idea what you mean," she returned, and Hermione sighed, taking a step back.

"They like you," she commented, and Pansy gave a magnificently regal version of a dispassionate shrug.

"Why wouldn't they?" she asked, unfazed. "I'm their Queen."

"Still," Hermione said, and Pansy arched a brow, her lips dipping into an unexpected smirk.

"You didn't think I would let you take him quietly, did you?" Pansy asked, her voice scarcely over a whisper. "Did you really think I would disappear?"

It took everything Hermione possessed to hide her surprise at the challenge.

"Yes," Hermione lied.

Pansy laughed again. "Good," she said crisply. "Underestimate me." She leaned forward in an imitation of an embrace, her lips near Hermione's ear. "I welcome it," she whispered, and Hermione, for all the ice in her veins, couldn't prevent a sudden chill.

* * *

"You're handling it well," Daphne commented, taking the last of the pins from Pansy's hair. "Not to say I'm surprised, but - "

"Say it," Pansy said, shaking her head. "You're surprised."

Daphne permitted a laugh. "Pleased, really," she corrected, taking the comb to the ends of Pansy's hair. "You know I hate to watch you suffer."

"You're the only one, I think," Pansy sighed. "Tom is - "

"The King," Daphne cut in quickly, arching a brow in warning, "is not in his right mind. But you'll show him," she added, twisting a long curl around her finger before letting it loose. "You're not to be discarded."

Pansy nodded, playing with the loose strands of her hair. "It's hard to know who to appeal to," she admitted. "Hermione seems to have a way with some of the Loyalists," she said, wilting at the thought of Lucius Malfoy and Rabastan Lestrange, "and those who oppose Tom will surely oppose me as well - "

"Not necessarily," Daphne corrected, setting the comb down. "Perhaps the King has done you a favor," she mused thoughtfully. "You may actually cast a wider net of favor as something other than simply a limb for the King's purposes."

"Though I could just as easily get myself killed in the same motion," Pansy murmured. "And didn't you once warn me about the others?"

Daphne grimaced.

"True," she permitted. "It's a delicate balance."

Pansy sighed, shaking her head. "Regardless, I'm grateful to have you," she said. "I have a feeling this will be difficult to navigate on my own."

"Well, you can count on Theo, too," Daphne assured her. "He likes you."

"Yes, but he also likes his head, I'm sure," Pansy reminded her. "If Tom asks for his loyalty, he'll have to give it, and so will you."

"Well, if ever you and the King are openly at odds, we have far more pressing things to worry about," Daphne said briskly. "So for now, simply collect affection."

"An easy claim," Pansy muttered. "A far harder execution, considering I rather conspicuously lack the affection of my own husba- "

"Don't," Daphne cut her off, shaking her head. "You'll find it elsewhere. Besides," she added, "I think the King has his hands full at the moment." She leaned in, keeping her voice low. "I hear one of the Weasley sons was killed."

"By whom?" Pansy asked, and Daphne shrugged.

"Only the Loyalists or the King himself would take issue with a Weasley," she said. "Little land and even littler fortune, and so nothing to gain by anyone else."

Pansy frowned. "Then why - "

"The Duke of Grimmauld," Daphne supplied, and Pansy blinked rapidly at the reference, forcing Harry's face out of her mind. "The Weasleys are notably his allies."

"Allies in what?" Pansy demanded skeptically. "I doubt he's out raising armies. Hardly sounds like it's in his book of rog- " she stopped, catching herself. "I mean," she amended, "I don't think he'd be so careless, do you?"

"Perhaps he's not careless," Daphne ventured. "Perhaps he's care _ful_ , in fact."

Pansy turned, eyeing the other woman. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Daphne hesitated. "I told you to keep your friends close," she said, though that was hardly an answer. "I'm afraid I didn't predict that there would come a time when you could never know your friends with any certainty."

"Ah," Pansy acknowledged, fighting discomfort at the statement. "Well," she offered, feigning brightness, "luckily, I won't hold that lack of foresight against you."

She had wanted to lighten the mood, but Daphne was not to be swayed.

"Be careful," Daphne warned. "With him. With everyone."

"Morbid," Pansy sighed. "But good advice, I'm sure."

Daphne gave her a tentative smile, taking a step back. "Goodnight, Your Majesty," she said, giving Pansy's fingers a light squeeze. "Have some rest before the battle tomorrow."

"Any battle in particular?" Pansy called after her, and Daphne turned over her shoulder, shaking her head.

"Every day begins anew," she said, and then closed the door behind her, leaving Pansy alone in the room.

Pansy paused for a moment, considering Daphne's warning but finding nothing but mystery in it; she walked to the candle at her bedside, leaning to blow it out, when the door opened again.

"Did you forget someth- "

The words died on her tongue as Harry hastily shut the door behind him; his eyes widened as he took in the sight of her in her dressing gown and she felt her own eyes narrow, her breath catching in her throat.

"Funny," he began, and then paused, clearing his throat. "Funny seeing you here," he amended, managing to conjure a sense of lightness on his second try.

"How did you get here?" Pansy demanded, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her. "I - you could - did anyone - "

"Nobody saw," he assured her. "And I got here via the handbook," he explained, and paused, grinning. "You know, of - "

"Of roguery, yes, I know," she interrupted, rolling her eyes as she settled herself on her bed, careful to keep distance between them. "How exactly was it helpful in this instance?"

"Ah, well, it has a map," Harry explained, waving a hand ambiguously as he took a step forward. "Also of roguery, as it were."

"A map of roguery," Pansy echoed skeptically, and Harry nodded.

"Well, a map of mischief, really," he said with a shrug. "But, again, general theories apply."

Pansy shook her head. "You shouldn't be here," she told him. "Someone could hear you, or see you, or - "

"I'll manage," Harry assured her.

"Well, _I_ won't," Pansy retorted crossly. "I'm not dressed."

"Yes," Harry agreed, his gaze traveling appreciatively over her. "Oddly, I find I'm not opposed."

"It's not happening again," Pansy warned him, keeping her arms crossed tightly. "I'm still the Queen, you know."

"Oh, I know," Harry assured her, taking another step. "If you want me on my knees," he ventured, "I assure you, Majesty, I'm able."

Pansy fought the immediate rush of longing, forcing herself to be firm.

"Isn't there someone else you can bother?" she asked, aiming for indifference.

"Yes, in fact," Harry said thoughtfully, tilting his head as he took another step. "I've not antagonized your husband in a while, now that I think of it."

Pansy shook her head, sighing. "Do you truly have no regard whatsoever for your life?"

"Unfortunately, he kills my friends, not me," Harry said, and for a moment she saw a flash of something new on his face; of pain, or rage, or else sorrow. "But," he said, quickly shaking himself free of the statement, "this isn't about Tom." He took a final step to bring him at the edge of her bed, leaning towards her; she hastily calibrated the distance and realized that if she reached towards him, they would touch.

"This is, as most things are," he murmured, his green eyes traveling slowly over her face, "about you."

_Don't, don't, don't -_

Pansy sighed. "You'll get us both killed," she said flatly.

"Not yet," he said, smiling at her and gesturing to the distance that remained between them. "Let me in your bed, though, and perhaps we can test your theory."

"Say I were to let you in," Pansy prompted. "What would you do?"

He leaned towards her, his fingers tightly gripping the post of her bed. "I'd make you a queen beloved," he whispered, and she bit her lip, surrendering the last of a losing battle.

"You can't stay," she began, but he had already grasped the message. He crawled towards her on the bed, taking her in his arms and then shifting to hold her face between his palms, admiring her like artwork; like grandeur, like religion.

"Tell me," he ventured, drawing a thumb over her cheek. "How shall I love you first?"

She swallowed. "Win me over," she invited, and he smiled, welcoming the challenge.

"You know, I like seeing you like this," he remarked, twining a curl loosely around his finger. "Undone." He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her shoulder. "I find it quite satisfying, although it does unhealthily perpetuate the roguish fantasy that you are mine."

"More roguery," Pansy commented, her heart pounding. "It's astounding that you have time for anything else."

"Like what?" Harry murmured. "I could make time," he suggested, drawing her hair back to drape over her shoulder, watching it cascade down her back. "If there's something you want from me."

"As ever, your absence would be ideal," she said, and he chuckled.

"One day you'll tire of torturing me," he informed her, his lips at the side of her neck. "I dread it."

"One day you'll tire of chasing me," she replied, "and I long for it."

"Do you?" he mused, giving her hair a gentle tug to look her in the eye, tutting softly. "Majesty, I'd no idea you were such an accomplished liar."

"Harry," she sighed, turning towards him, and he captured her sighing breath in a kiss - slow and languid and patient, his fingers coming to rest along her jaw.

"That's better," he said against her lips, smirking slightly. "Now say it again, only with feeling."

"Harry," she groaned, making a face, but he, ever the knave, had already thieved from her a second kiss, pulling her against his chest to slide his hands to the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair.

She kissed him back, tentatively at first, amazed that he had yet to lose his flavor, furious that she still failed to resist his touch; she wished that she would tire of him - _could_ tire of him - but when he deepened the kiss she didn't bother to fight it, feeling herself melt against him.

"Pansy," he rasped, pulling away for a moment to look at her, drawing his thumb across her lip. "How shall I love you first?"

She forced a breath; tried to catch it.

"Slowly," she said eventually. "Like it can last."

He kissed her neck. "And then?"

"Desperately," she said, swallowing. "Because it won't."

He pulled back, his jewel-toned eyes flashing in the dimly lit room. "And if it does?" he asked hoarsely. "If it lasts, and I wish to keep you?"

"Then you'll have to love me as if your life depends on it," she whispered back, running her fingers across the swell of his lips as he swept her in his arms again, laying her back on the bed and lowering himself against her.

"And to think," he murmured, his hands falling to her waist. "I'd have done that anyway."


	11. Rising Tides

**Chapter 11: Rising Tides**

"Well," Minerva remarked, glancing up as the door opened. "This is certainly a surprise. Ah, and Your Majesty," she added, nodding to Tom with the sort of Minerva-esque approximation of humility that served as both acknowledgement and admonishment. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Madam McGonagall," Tom offered smoothly, his hand placed securely on the small of Hermione's back. "A pleasure, as always."

Minerva's eyes transferred warily to Hermione's. "Quite," she agreed, without any particular indication that she meant it.

It wasn't quite the homecoming Hermione had expected; the greeting, while not openly aggressive, lacked the warmth she'd anticipated. Hermione paused, uncertain, before proceeding inside.

"Minerva," she offered, experimenting with the widest smile she could conjure. "It's so nice to see you. Things look - " she paused, glancing around the shop. "Different," she decided, though in truth, little had changed.

Minerva arched a brow. "They do, don't they?" she murmured, with only the slightest brush of hesitation. "I scarcely recognized you, _Lady_ Hermione," she added. "I'd heard you had quite a rise, but I must say, it's quite a sight to behold."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, her fingers suddenly chilled against the folded materials of her skirts. "His Majesty has made me quite welcome at court," she admitted, glancing down at her feet. "But I've missed you, all the same."

At that, Minerva appeared to soften. "I've missed you too, girl," she conceded gruffly, consenting to step towards her. "There's not a head for numbers like yours anywhere around this sorry place."

Relief tugged at the corners of Hermione's mouth. "There really isn't," she agreed, and Minerva sniffed her agreement.

"Ah, I should have Severus take care of some things for you, then," Tom contributed, clearing his throat. "He's got a head for most things, I think."

Minerva shrugged. "He's been helpful enough," she permitted, which Hermione knew was far more a compliment than it sounded. "I've got the things you asked for in the back," Minerva offered tangentially, gesturing behind her. "Didn't think you'd be here in person," she added, her brow raising warily. "Is it a special occasion, Your Majesty?"

"In a sense. Call it the calm before the storm," he suggested, shrugging. "I have some visitors this week."

"I'd heard," Minerva commented. "Queen Olympe, correct?"

"Yes, among others," Tom confirmed. "I thought, given the flurry of activity our court is anticipating, that perhaps Lady Hermione might like a trip outside the castle walls," he added at a murmur, giving Hermione a look so thoroughly unveiling that she nearly felt her cheeks melt from the heat of it. "But," he went on, returning his glance to Minerva as Hermione's gaze dropped demurely to the floor, "I see now that I'm merely intruding on what's meant to be a happy reunion. Please," he implored, gesturing, "take a moment. Minerva, if you wouldn't mind giving the materials I've requested to Lady Hermione - I trust her to successfully deliver them, in lieu of my accepting them myself."

He offered an appreciative nod of his head, and Minerva gave a coltish sort of bow; Hermione, finding her hand in Tom's, let him brush his lips against her knuckles before she turned, meeting the paralyzing blow of Minerva's disapproving stare as the door fell shut behind them.

"So," Minerva said flatly. "He's conquered you, then, has he?"

"Minerva," Hermione said, a tremor of something that was both anger and disappointment creeping unhappily up her spine. "He's - it's not just - "

But Minerva had already closed the distance between them, taking Hermione's hands in hers.

"Be careful," Minerva said quietly, holding tight to Hermione's fingers and expressing, for the first time since she'd walked into the shop, some indication of warmth. "He's dangerous, love, and he grows _more_ dangerous with each day."

"He's - " Hermione forced a swallow. "He's not."

Minerva sighed, shaking her head. "Don't let yourself be blinded by some foolish conception of love, Hermione," she said urgently. "Don't let the glitter of him distract you from the venom beneath the surface."

"Venom," Hermione echoed, wanting to scoff. "So what if he's venomous? Who says I don't have venom of my own?"

Minerva gave her a wary look of disapproval.

"You've certainly got teeth, girl, so use them," she sniffed. "Don't waste them sinking them into poison."

"So he's poison now, too, then?" Hermione asked dully. "Which is it, Minerva? Is he poisonous or venomous?"

Minerva, unfazed by her derision, merely shrugged.

"A snake is a snake," she retorted. "And he'll ruin you both before he lets you get the better of him, believe me."

It was a lecture, and Hermione felt foolish, which was something she quite hated to feel; she promptly changed the subject, her mouth souring in protest.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me," Hermione told Minerva, cringing slightly at the childish sulk in her voice. "I thought you'd be - "

"What?" Minerva prompted skeptically. "Proud? I have some idea of what you've had to do to get to where you are, Hermione," she sighed, "and I'm sorry to tell you that I don't know if it's worth it."

At that - the implication, and the doubt - Hermione stiffened, defensive.

"Worth it?" she asked, disbelieving. "Of course it's worth it. You don't know him," she added, feeling a rush of fury. "You don't know him."

"Don't I?" Minerva asked, indifferent. "Or don't I at least know you?"

It seemed, at the moment, unfair.

"Things are complicated at court," Hermione told her. "People are selfish, and disloyal, and _cruel_ , and the Qu-"

She broke off. Minerva's mouth twisted knowingly.

"The Queen," Minerva supplied, shaking her head. "The King's wife, love," she reminded her emphatically, taking hold of Hermione's shoulders. "His _wife_."

Hermione shook her head, taking a step back, but Minerva took two forward.

"He's no ordinary man, Hermione," Minerva urged. "I warned you, didn't I? I knew he would want you," she added darkly. "Clever as you are, I knew it - "

"Well isn't that precisely it?" Hermione countered. "Isn't that just _it_? He _sees_ me, Minerva," she said furiously. "I've lived my life invisibly, crawling in the shadows of what I could have been if I'd been born a _man_ , and I _thought_ ," she continued, her voice breaking in misery, "that you would understand."

She took a step away, pacing slowly, and then stopped, facing Minerva. "You remember, don't you?" Hermione demanded, in something that was as much a plea as it was a defense. "You remember the many ways I've been shortchanged because of my birth. Tom _defends_ me," she claimed brusquely. "He stands by me, no matter what the others of his court would say. He teaches me, he cares for me, he treats me as an equal, and he - "

She hesitated, feeling it on the tip of her tongue, and let it escape on a burdened breath.

"He _loves_ me," she eventually confessed, "and I love him."

At that, Minerva looked pained, and several beats of silence passed between them, settling in the space they had once so willingly shared.

"Maybe he does," Minerva permitted eventually, and forced a heavy swallow. "Maybe," she repeated, shaking her head, "but love is fleeting, Hermione, and men are like tides; they rise and fall, but they never, _ever_ stay where you'd like them."

She paused, glancing over Hermione's face, and softened again, finally looking at her with the kindness Hermione had been missing from so many nights at court. "I have something for you," Minerva murmured quietly, half to herself, and then suddenly leapt towards the back room. "Wait there, would you?"

Hermione nodded, feeling opposition rise up in her throat and letting it sit there, sticky and restless, as she ran her fingers along the items on the tables; the thin glass vases, the odds and ends, vials and boxes and globes. She let her hand rest at the end of a long table, her eye caught on a gilded copper cage; new to the collection, she thought, and empty, though the two observations were not related.

She heard Minerva's footfall returning from the back of the shop and she slid her hand away, noticing she'd left a delicate lacing of frost along the table's edge.

"This," Minerva said, holding up a small glass vial filled with small crystalline orbs, "is for you. Mint and savin," she explained, and pressed it into Hermione's hand, closing her fingers around it. "Take one each time you lie with him."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Minerva didn't falter.

"He may be the king, but if his court turns on you, you'll be in far more danger than you think," she said. "Blood means everything to them. These men, they want to live forever," she remarked disdainfully, "and they'll do it however they can. Through you if they have to."

Hermione shook her head, a slight buzzing filling her ears. "I - I don't understand - "

"Of course you do," Minerva admonished her. "If you bear his child, Hermione, he'll use it to control you, and his opposition will have different ideas altogether about what might be done with your life."

It seemed too foreign a concept to muster a response.

"I wouldn't - " Hermione swallowed. "I can't - "

"You're a woman, and he's a man," Minerva reminded her, with a near-brutish frankness. "You _can_ , and you very well might. Love him if you must," she added, almost wryly, "but do not be the fool who finds herself entirely at his mercy."

Hermione stared down at the vial, finding the thought difficult to process.

"You say that like a baby would weaken me," she murmured, not knowing what else to say, and Minerva let out a sharp, biting laugh.

"Anything that prevents you from running for your life is a weakness, and generally to be avoided, considering the games you've chosen to play," Minerva informed her. "Just take it," she added, nudging Hermione's hand. "Listen to me, don't listen to me," she conceded, shrugging, "but keep it with you, just in case. And tell that king of yours to send Severus for the other things," she added, making a face. "Not you."

She stepped closer, looking down at Hermione.

"You're a proper lady now, love," Minerva remarked softly. "You're not a conduit for his deviance."

Hermione swallowed hard, awash in sadness as she nodded, and Minerva reached out to touch her cheek.

"He lures you," Minerva murmured. "However he does it, body or mind or soul, he does," she lamented softly, "and you must be careful with what you can."

It seemed an endless refrain; _be careful, be careful, be careful -_

"He loves me," Hermione whispered, and Minerva took a deep breath, smoothing back one of Hermione's curls before exhaling, her voice bitter and haunted and sad.

"We often destroy what we love," she remarked, and Hermione closed her eyes.

_You and your power, me and my throne, we are not ourselves without them -_

_You don't want softness, Hermione, you want a love that feels like rage -_

"Not me," she said, surprised by the roughness in her throat as her eyes fluttered open. "He will not destroy me. Nothing can."

Minerva's expression didn't change.

"Good," she said, and Hermione turned, her fingers closed tight around the vial.

* * *

"It goes without saying that Queen Olympe's visit is of utmost importance to the King," Severus told her unnecessarily, as Pansy fought to suppress a yawn. "I understand you've made arrangements within the castle for her arrival?"

"Yes, of course, Severus," Pansy said impatiently, shaking her head. "I've also made sure a few of my ladies will be available for her, should she require them."

"Mm," Severus acknowledged gruffly. "And as for Ambassador Karkaroff?"

"What of him?" Pansy asked, making a face. "He's been a guest in my father's house many times. I've never known him to require any particular favors - nor be particularly worthy of them," she muttered under her breath.

"Yes, well," Severus sighed, "you've also never known him to be of any use to you, I'm sure, but things change, don't they?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pansy demanded, falling to a sudden halt in the corridor. "Use to me?"

Severus shifted, glancing askance.

"Well, use to the King," he amended pointedly, "and thus, by extension, you."

"God save him," Pansy commented dully, and Severus, through what she perceived to be extraordinary effort, did not permit his expression to falter. "So," she continued, sighing. "He takes interest in Ambassador Karkaroff specifically?"

Severus nodded.

"The ambassador, as you know, has always fostered a kinship with the Loyalists," Severus said, which Pansy confirmed with a tight-lipped nod. "I believe the King wishes to use that kinship to his advantage."

She frowned. "Wouldn't winning over Queen Olympe do just as well?"

"Ideally," Severus said, and hesitated. "Though, the Queen's reign is not without its problems," he conceded uneasily. "She is, after all, merely regent. As you would be, Your Majesty, should anything untoward happen to the King. Heaven forbid," he added hastily, which Pansy brushed aside.

"Does Tom not regard her as legitimate, then?" she asked, and Severus, again, did not permit his expression to waver. "Why are we going through so much trouble for her visit if he doesn't see her as an equal monarch?"

Severus shrugged. "Does a man really know his own power if he doesn't see it reflected in the eyes of others?" he prompted, and Pansy grimaced.

"One would hope," she muttered, and Severus gave her something of a wry half-smile.

"With all due respect, hope is for holier men, Your Majesty," he said, and offered her a bow. "If there's nothing else - "

"No, there isn't," Pansy permitted, nodding as he rose. "Thank you, Severus."

He nodded, offering her a second, more perfunctory bow, and then retreated down the corridor in the opposite direction, leaving Pansy alone. She took a step, contemplating whether she felt more inclined toward wandering aimlessly towards the gardens or towards the Great Hall, when she felt fingers close around her wrist, pulling her into the nearby alcove.

"Excuse me," she gasped, wrenching her arm from his grasp and then groaning as she heard Harry's laugh, catching the spark in his green eyes. "You're getting bold, Harry," she remarked moodily, but relented to be pulled into his arms, the motion of his laughter vibrating cruelly up her spine as he pressed her against his chest.

" _Getting_ bold? Oh, Majesty," he said in her ear, shaking his head. "I regret that I ever might have allowed you to fail to notice."

He slid his hands from her waist, slipping them to her hips, and she shook her head, swallowing so resolutely that it seemed to be incomprehensibly loud, echoing throughout the alcove.

"What do you want?" she asked, and he bent his head, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder.

"I want," he began, his hands lifting from her hips to draw against the side of her neck, "to know you, Pansy."

"Know me?" she echoed. "What more is there to know?"

"Oh, quite a bit, I'm afraid," he lamented, tutting softly in disapproval. "For example - " he leaned in, the stubble on his chin brushing her cheek. "Do you think about me, Your Majesty?" he whispered in her ear. "When you're alone, do you feel me?"

"Feel you?" she asked vacantly. "Like a ghost?"

"Perhaps," he permitted, and then his hands were buried in her skirts, lifting them inch by inch until his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. "I thought maybe you might - " he paused, taking her hand, and placed it where his had been. "Think of me."

She swallowed. "Why," she rasped with difficulty, "would I think of _you_ , Harry?"

He chuckled darkly. "Why indeed," he said, taking two of her fingers and guiding them up, pausing just before he might have slid them inside her.

"Harry," she gritted out, her breath hurtling into her mouth and manifesting in a gasp. "This is - inappropriate. Indecent."

"I'm not doing anything," he told her, pointedly rubbing her palm against the curve of her inner thigh. "But indulge me," he murmured, gently drawing circles with her fingers along her thigh. "What would I be doing, if you could choose?"

"Dying slowly," she muttered, and he laughed.

"Say I were to put my mouth on you," he suggested instead. "The way you like it - slow at first, and then deeper, with my tongue inside you. I like the way you taste, Pansy," he told her, and she shuddered. "Love the way you're so sweet when you try not to beg."

"I don't beg," she snapped, and he tutted his disagreement.

"You don't, but imagine if you did," he whispered. "I wouldn't make you, Your Majesty, I know your pride, but just think - " he bit lightly on her neck, sighing. "If I made you beg for it, Pansy. If I slid my tongue against you and licked you, slowly, and you lifted your hips for me the way you do when you want me - oh, you want me, but you don't want to say so - "

"Stop," she breathed, but even she knew she was lying.

"I'll give it to you if you beg," he promised her. "Whatever you want, you can have it, but only if you ask nicely. Ask me nicely," he added, half-laughing, as she fought a moan in torment. "Tell me what you want, Pansy."

"I want," she began, and shuddered. "I want you to leave me alone."

"Do you?" he asked. "Maybe you do. But let's pretend, shall we?" he asked gruffly, using his knee to widen her stance. "Let's pretend you told me how you really felt. Let's imagine you told me you wanted me inside you, wanted every bit of me, my fingers and my mouth, and then you wanted my cock and I said no, Your Majesty, no, I couldn't, I _can't_ \- but you _begged_ , and because I adore you," he whispered, "because I worship you, I gave in. I put you on your back with your legs spread, parted for me, _waiting,_ and you whined and dug your nails into my ribs and I said _yes_ ," he murmured, dragging her hand slowly back up the length of her thigh. "I said yes, my Queen, anything for you."

Her heart leapt to her throat, beating itself violently against her ribs.

"Then," she stammered, relenting again. "Then what?"

He inhaled sharply, his chest shifting against the blades of her shoulders.

"Then I nearly come at the sight of you, bare for me," he offered quietly, "stripped down to nothing and with your hair loose, flowing down your back and spilling over the sheets. My sheets," he added, "in my bed. Belonging to me. _Mine_ ," he repeated gruffly, his grip tightening almost painfully, one hand on hers and the other still on her waist. "I nearly come just from looking at you - but you've asked me, Pansy, and you've asked me so nicely I just cannot refuse, can I?"

She shifted against him, letting out an inadvertent whimper, and she felt him smile against her cheek.

"I take you slowly," he continued. "So slowly you're aching for me. Throbbing."

She was, and it was torment.

"I pull your hair the way you like," he added, releasing her waist to reach up, giving it a tug with his free hand, "and I kiss your neck." This, too, he demonstrated. "And you say my name, just once, and I take you deeper. A little deeper," he said. "A little faster, and you say it again."

He paused, waiting expectantly, and she sighed.

"Harry," she murmured, indulging him, and he slid her fingers against the slickness at her slit.

"Like that," he agreed. "Just like that."

"Harry," she groaned, bucking against his hand. "Please."

He inhaled sharply, swallowing, as she rubbed against his hips.

"Exactly like that," he groaned, and she slid her hand a second time, rejoicing in the unsteadiness of his chest's rise and fall.

"Harry," she let slip again, the sound of his name passing through furiously gritted teeth, and his breathing grew labored in her ear.

"All you have to do is ask, Pansy," he murmured. "All you have to do is ask for me, and I'm yours. However you want me."

"I - " she began, and faltered, feeling her cheeks heat. "I want - "

He stiffened, and then suddenly released her.

"Not now," he said, tearing the breath from her lungs, and slipped his hand from hers to spin her to face him, his hands greedily spread across her hips. "Take you now," he prompted mockingly, gesturing to the corridor, "where anyone could see? Inappropriate," he judged, passing his tongue over his lips and staring down at her. "Indecent."

"You monster," she whispered, and he leaned forward, his lips a breath's distance from hers.

"Ask me again," he offered quietly, "when we're alone. When I can have you somewhere I can hear you. I want to _hear_ you _,_ " he said again, his lips brushing the side of her mouth, tracing the line of her cheek. "I want you to tell me how you want me, Pansy, or you won't have me at all."

She stared at him; disbelief mixed with terror.

"I thought you said you wouldn't make me beg," she said unsteadily, and he laughed.

"Am I making you?" he asked, teasing her. "No, Your Majesty, I wouldn't dare presume you'd want me, as you've made it so clear that you wouldn't stoop to such horrifying depths. But," he countered, leaning closer, his breath on her lips, "if you do - "

He pulled away, and she suffered the wrenching distance between them.

"If you do, then you know where to find me," he told her, and then he slipped into the corridor, running his hand through his unruly hair and leaving her gripping the stone wall behind her, swallowing the pain of her transgressions.

* * *

The rumors circulating that week were no less harsh than normal; the unfortunate thing, however, was that this time, they were true.

"My sources say Olympe won't come," Tom said, momentary flames licking his bare feet as he paced the floor of his bedroom, his unerring control fraying at the edges in the midst of an agonizing rant. "Karkaroff won't confirm it, he won't _say_ it, but that's confirmation enough." He spun, grimacing, as he faced Hermione, his torso bare and slicked from the heat from the fire behind him, his skin pebbled with agitation. "This," he declared flatly, "is not how I wanted things to go."

Hermione cleared her throat, unmoving.

"Does Karkaroff give you a reason?" she asked neutrally, and Tom scowled.

"He doesn't - the _coward_ \- but I've got sources of my own," he muttered, and Hermione let out a slow, careful exhale, noting the troubled look on his face at the mention.

"It's me," she judged, "isn't it?"

At that, Tom paused his pacing, rubbing the back of his neck and then turning to face her.

"She won't come," Hermione continued, watching him, "because she doesn't approve of your relationship with me. Is that it?"

Tom's scowl turned sinister, shifting from turmoil to rage.

"It's my fault," he said flatly, as much confirmation as anything, and slid his tongue over his lips, shaking his head. "I was selfish. I wanted you for myself, and I wasn't thinking straight." He turned, beginning to pace the room again. "I should have betrothed you to someone," he muttered under his breath, admonishing a past version of himself. "Given you a title, rather than letting you remain a single woman at court." He paused, thinking. "I could have given you to Draco, perhaps," he said thoughtfully, and Hermione felt her cheeks drain of blood.

"No," she blurted out, a little too brusquely. Tom turned, eyeing her with displeasure, and she glanced down. "No," she repeated, with a slightly more measured tone. "I hate him, Tom. You know that."

He seemed thoroughly unimpressed with her resolve.

"Hatred in a marriage," he remarked, scoffing, "is as commonplace as anything else between man and wife, don't you think?"

"He's different," Hermione retorted, curling her fingers into fists at the thought. "He's - "

She trailed off, thinking of their last encounter.

 _Remarkable, isn't it,_ Draco had said that evening, his grey eyes cast disdainfully over her as they were forced, yet again, to pair off in a dance. _Even from across borders they can sense your common blood, can't they?_

 _How's your father?_ Hermione had asked in return, ignoring him. _Be sure to tell him my headache from this morning has thankfully subsided,_ she added, feigning lightness. _You know how he worries after my health._

She watched Draco's face contort, as it always did, in irrepressible anger. _Stay away from my father,_ he snapped, and Hermione had smiled.

 _I'd say I would,_ she returned, _but he doesn't seem to make a habit of staying away from me, does he?_

The dance had quickened, and she'd been forced to come within inches of him, his voice low in her ear.

 _The King will tire of you,_ Draco whispered to her. _He will tire of you, and he will cast you aside - and when it happens, perhaps my father will be made a fool for his indulgence, but I will not._

 _True, you'll be made a fool far sooner,_ Hermione returned sweetly, letting herself be swung out in the dance before gratifyingly bowing, ending the dance. _We'll see which one of us outlasts the other,_ she murmured to him, meeting his gaze without coquetry.

 _We'll see,_ he snarled, forcing the most perfunctory of bows, and she smiled, certain she already knew that he was not a man who could carry Tom's favor, nor ever endear himself to her.

"He's arrogant," Hermione finally said, blinking away the memory and returning her attention to Tom. "He's selfish, and altogether too concerned with appearances. I doubt he'd take kindly to being cuckolded," she added pointedly, "even by you."

"Which I regret to say," Tom sighed, "makes him both more appealing and far less useful than Lucius." He paused, tilting his head. "Who, I suppose, does remain an option, doesn't he?"

The thought of it - of _marriage,_ and to someone who wasn't Tom - was altogether too horrifying to bear.

"Why do you wish for me to marry all of a sudden?" Hermione demanded. "What happened to belonging to me, Tom?"

"I don't _wish_ for you to be married," Tom growled, prowling towards her and climbing atop the bed, dragging his bare chest slowly along hers. "I wish you to be the one in my bed, Hermione, and on my throne, but few men are granted the privilege of having the same woman for both." He paused, pressing his lips to her shoulder. "I belong to you," he assured her. "You know this. But Queen Olympe and her splintered court," he spat out mockingly, "are now a thorn in my side to be dealt with, and what kind of King would I be if I permitted my feelings for you to hinder my progress?"

She sighed.

"You know," Hermione remarked, sliding her fingers down the notches of his spine, "if you wanted to serve multiple ends, you could simply betroth me to Harry."

Tom stiffened, his entire body going rigid against her.

"It would, after all, permit me to watch him more closely, and thus provide you a presence in his household," Hermione noted, absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair. "It would also solve the problems you've already mentioned, as any noble marriage would. He ranks higher than Draco, after all, and - "

"No," Tom declared flatly, heaving himself up and staring down at her, his blue eyes flashing with warning. "You think I'd give you to Harry?"

"Why not?" she asked, shrugging. "It's the same as giving me to Draco, isn't it? Or Lucius - "

"No, it's not the _same_ ," Tom snapped. "This is _Harry_ we're talking about - he's a Peverell, and an utter fucking nuisance - "

"I assure you," Hermione muttered, "Draco Malfoy is no less a nuisance."

"He is at least a Loyalist," Tom countered furiously. "Your opposition to him is childish, Hermione, and pointless. Draco, at least, can be relied upon to share in my endeavors, but Harry - " he stepped away, dismounting from the bed and stepping back. "No," he said again, shaking his head. "No, you can't - I wouldn't - " he broke off, his face contorted in something Hermione might have called pain, had it manifested on a lesser man. "To imagine you vowing allegiance to him - swearing your fealty, your devotion to _him -_ "

"Oh, so marriage vows mean something to you now, Tom?" Hermione asked drily, sitting up on the bed and watching him devolve in front of her; marveling, privately, that she could prompt madness from him so easily, with only the mention of Harry's name entwined with hers. "Should I fetch the Queen for you, then?"

Tom's knuckles sparked with warning, his fingers curling towards his palms.

"You know Pansy is necessary to me," he told her, his voice thin. "Were she not _still_ necessary, I'd have rid myself of her long ago, Hermione - "

"What do you need her for?" Hermione protested. "To unite your court? I could do the same, you know," she murmured, rolling her eyes. "Just ask Rabastan."

"Not just that," Tom said, shaking his head. "She holds the Borderlands, Hermione. She's a piece of this - of _all_ of this. And now," he spat, "with Olympe's refusal to enter into delegations, Pansy is more important than ever."

"How?" Hermione asked, frowning. She slid her legs under her, shifting to lean towards him. "Tell me," she coaxed him, holding a hand out for his, and he sighed, his ire gradually cooling as he stepped towards her.

He slid his fingers through hers, running his thumb carefully along her palm.

"What do all men want?" he murmured to her, and she blinked, surprised.

"To live forever," she replied, and he smiled against her cheek.

"You understand me," he told her quietly, "don't you? You're the only one who understands."

He brought her hand to his lips, brushing them across it, and she sighed.

"Tom," she attempted softly, and he glanced up.

"What kings never die?" he asked her, and leaned back, fixing her with the intensity of his stare, dark and light and raging as she held her tongue, trapping her breath at the question. "The conqueror-kings, Hermione," he answered for her. "The ones who take power and use it to build empires. To carve their thrones, to _take_ them."

She stared at him, watching him descend to rapture at the thought.

"You want war," she realized, and his lips curled up in a smile.

"I need Pansy," he said forcefully. "I need her father's loyalty, and the security of our border. If Olympe refuses to make things easy, then I'll simply have to make things difficult," he added ominously, and Hermione took two slow breaths, steadying herself before she spoke.

"If you go to war," she began, and Tom cut her off with a laugh.

"When," he corrected sharply, and she swallowed. " _When_ I go to war, and _when_ I take Beauxbatons from Olympe, that will be the beginnings of an empire. Of _my_ empire," he said, looking down at her hand in his, "and yours."

Hermione's breath trapped in her throat. "Mine?"

He glanced up, staring at her; contemplating her.

"What will I need Pansy for when the Borderlands are secured within my reach?" he asked her, and she felt her pulse quicken. "You're a far more worthy Queen," he told her, slipping his finger under her chin and lifting it to meet her eye, "and I would have you beside me over anyone else."

"Tom," Hermione said, finding a surprising lurch in her stomach. "But - "

"As things are now, so long as she makes no false steps, Pansy is a necessity," Tom said again, burrowing his lips in the base of her neck. "But the moment I can have you, Hermione, I plan to."

He pulled her close, his heart thudding against hers.

"I will give you a kingdom," he murmured, and in a breathless leap of hunger Hermione closed her eyes, feeling something that was at once a thrill and a warning; a glimmer of something, of distant futures and coiling pasts, of _a pity that such a gifted mind would be wasted on a woman - a waste that the crown has not been made that would sit upon your head - be certain you remember what that feels like,_ she heard, Pansy's voice in her head as she knelt at the Queen's feet, cast aside again.

 _Cast aside_ , she thought, _but never again -_

A crown glittered; gleamed. _He lures you,_ Hermione heard Minerva say, but was it, was it, was it really?

In her mind's eye, she saw Tom - two of him at once, both the one in her arms and the one on the throne - blazing and sanctified, exulting in his reign.

 _What do you see?_ she asked of her King, and in her mind he turned to her, his blue eyes a thundering storm.

 _Glory,_ he whispered, reaching out, his fingers tangling in her hair. _Glory,_ _and a crown,_ he said, and she breathed it in; breathed it out.

And then the image in her mind shifted, turning dark; turning rich and crimson, a taste of blood and bone, dissolving to scattered ash, to _Tom, please,_ and _you asked for this, Hermione, this is what you made me_ \- to twisting strands of fate, to burdened coils of moonlight and shadow, pale and sharp and taunting and _what have I done, what have I done_ and _this is what you've made me, Hermione, this is what you've done -_

_Flickers on the horizon, fire that rages out of sight - a crimson sky, a scarlet shadow, a world engulfed in flames - passion and blood and bone -_

_Run little queen,_ she heard, and held back a gasp. _Run, and pray I don't catch you -_

"Have you noticed anything about Harry?" Tom asked, and Hermione blinked, forcing herself back to the present as she found her hands shaking, curling themselves around the base of Tom's skull.

At the question - at the reminder of reality - she paused, catching her breath, to recall what she'd seen of Harry; of him slipping from an alcove, and Pansy following after. A coincidence, perhaps, but the Queen had always been careful; _far_ too careful, and far too attentive when Harry's eyes had lingered -

_So long as she makes no false steps, Pansy is a necessity -_

"Not yet," Hermione lied, but Tom wasn't listening, his hands already slipping covetously to her hips.

* * *

Ambassador Karkaroff came alone.

Not _alone_ alone, of course, but notably without Queen Olympe, and Tom's displeasure was palpable, radiating from him where he stood beside Pansy.

"Ambassador," he said to Karkaroff, who bowed as low as any Loyalist at court. "I hope your travels were unburdened."

"They were, Your Majesty," Karkaroff returned. "I regret that my Queen could not join me, but she is - "

"Ambassador," Tom cut in smoothly, his face a mask of pleasantry, "let us not indulge in our regrets when we are so clearly among friends. Come," he beckoned, rising to his feet. "Perhaps you'd like to have a private chat before the evening's festivities. I understand my Queen has prepared quite the showcase for you," he added, nodding in Pansy's direction, and she sank into a low curtsy, acknowledging him.

Across the room, she could feel Harry's eyes tracing the line of her neck.

"Come," Tom said again, gesturing to the private council chambers. "Regale us with news, Ambassador," he added, becoming instantly charming. "Shall we?" he murmured beside him, and Pansy's heart promptly lurched as he turned to Hermione, offering her his arm.

Hermione, for her part, blinked once, as though she might have hesitated, but ultimately gave him a quiet nod, silently taking his arm. Pansy watched, her stomach twisting in displeasure, as the other woman shifted, her gaze finding Pansy's.

 _You see the tides are turning,_ the woman's brown eyes seemed to say, less a show of mockery than a muted warning. _Be careful you don't lose your footing._

Pansy swallowed her misgivings, forcing them down, and smoothed her peerless facade, manifesting a smile as she led the rest of Ambassador Karkaroff's party to the Great Hall; she focused on her breaths, and the pain of them, and the knowledge that they would still come, abhorrently relentless, even if she sank to nothing.

 _Perhaps it's not as bad as it seems_ , Daphne had murmured. _They say Queen Olympe refused the invitation on your behalf -_

 _Little good that does me_ , Pansy exhaled, a bit too sharply, and Daphne had blanched.

 _Every day is a battle_ , Daphne reminded her, with a reassuring brush against Pansy's arm. _All you can do is try to win._

"How was the journey?" Pansy asked one of Karkaroff's chancellors, a man called Poliakoff. "I hope you find Hogwarts to be as welcoming as Beauxbatons."

"Queen Olympe is kind to offer us a place in her palace, as are you, Your Majesty," Poliakoff returned, nodding appreciatively as he spoke. "Though nearly any place is better than our ancestral seat at Durmstrang."

Pansy laughed, watching the man shudder.

"Well, I hope you find yourselves at home here," she assured him. "How long do you intend to reward us with your visit?"

"A week, perhaps," Poliakoff returned. "Queen Olympe will be wanting us to return post haste - though I suspect Karkaroff would be more than happy to remain with your King," he added, a tone of disapproval creeping into his voice.

At that, Pansy had to fight to conceal a smile.

 _Discord._ She knew it well.

"Do you enjoy life at Beauxbatons, then?" she asked carefully, and Poliakoff nodded firmly.

"It is a pleasure to serve such a conscientious queen," he said, and glanced at her. "I hear it said you are quite similar, Your Majesty."

"Do you?" Pansy asked, looking up. She noticed, again, that Harry was looking at her; and more conspicuously, that he was not alone, standing in a circle with Ron and a man from Karkaroff's group of dignitaries, a man she believed was called Krum. "What have you heard?"

"That you are the very essence of benevolence," Poliakoff returned sincerely, prompting Pansy to stifle a startled laugh, "and that you've won the hearts of a capricious court."

"Their hearts," Pansy echoed softly, and caught the motion of Harry's smile, his lips curving up just slightly as he turned, nodding at something Krum had said. "Well," she said, forcing herself to turn back to Poliakoff with a smile, "it is an honor to serve them, as I'm sure you understand."

Poliakoff nodded before his expression promptly sobered, and he leaned in, his voice conspiratorially hushed.

"Forgive me for my boldness, Your Majesty, but you should know you have a friend in Queen Olympe," Poliakoff murmured to her, quietly enough that only she could hear. "If ever you should require an ally, be certain that you have one at our court."

At that, Pansy blinked, stunned.

"I see," she forced out quietly, recognizing the tremor underfoot at the perilous delivery of his offer. "Though I would, of course, presume you mean that we in Diagon have an ally," she added, treading carefully. "Our kingdoms are lucky to share a spirit of fraternity, then."

"Quite," Poliakoff said, sharing a meaningful glance with her before taking a step away, raising his voice. "As it is, perhaps we should retire," he suggested, glancing at his companions. "Ready ourselves before this evening's merriment?"

"Of course," Pansy confirmed, nodding. "Pettigrew," she called over her shoulder, gesturing for him, "will you see to it that Chancellor Poliakoff and the rest of Ambassador Karkaroff's companions are shown to their rooms?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Pettigrew offered stiffly, bowing low and then gesturing for the others to follow. "Come, come - "

Poliakoff bowed once to Pansy, nodding his allegiance, and then beckoned to Krum, who offered a gruff farewell to Harry and Ron before joining his associate, both of them offering a compulsory kiss against her hand before heading down the corridor after Pettigrew.

"Your Majesty," Ron offered, bowing to her. "May we also be dismissed to ready ourselves for dinner?"

"Yes, of course," Pansy permitted, pointedly avoiding Harry's gaze as Ron exited, the other nobles following him out as Harry paused at her side. "Lord Henry," she murmured under her breath, pausing him with a glance, "perhaps you might assist me with something?"

She felt rather than saw him smile.

"As my Queen wishes," he acknowledged quietly, and Daphne cleared her throat, nudging Hannah.

"Your Majesty," Daphne said, curtsying. "If we might - "

"You might," Pansy permitted bluntly, nodding to her, and after a cleverly concealed smile from Daphne the rest of the room had emptied, leaving Pansy and Harry standing alone. She took a few steps back, facing him, and let out a careful breath; he waited, watching her before she spoke.

"You're up to something, Lord Henry," she commented, watching the emerald of his eyes change, the green of them flooded and fractured as he looked at her. "You've spoken to Poliakoff before, haven't you?"

He cleared his throat, pointedly taking a pause.

"It is polite to speak when spoken to," he remarked wryly, and Pansy shook her head disapprovingly.

"The King is right to worry about you," she murmured, "isn't he? You're not nearly as innocent as you seem," she judged, beginning to circle him slowly, "and it's not simply a result of roguery, is it?"

Harry, not unpredictably, spared her a laugh.

"I do love how you consistently underestimate me," he said. "It's really quite endearing, isn't it?"

She paused, flashing him a glare.

"You're using me," she commented, and he shook his head.

"No," he told her, shrugging. "I'm not."

"You are," she corrected. "Whatever you're plotting - "

"Not plotting," he cut in, smiling, and she ignored him.

" - you can't use me, Harry," she told him, setting her chin high. "Whatever it is you're up to - "

"Has the list of crimes expanded?" he cut in drily. "Am I to suffer for my proclivity for making friends?"

She pressed her lips together, displeased.

"You," she told him, "are not a very good friend."

"Yes," he countered, stepping towards her, "I am."

"No," she started to say, but he cut her off, shaking his head.

"I realize you could have me arrested, you know. Killed, even, just on suspicion," he remarked effortlessly, and she grimaced. "But before you cut off my head, Your Majesty, you should know that this has nothing to do with you. Tom is a tyrant," Harry said flatly, his expression losing its knavish buoyancy and lining itself, instead, with anguish. "His ambitions will get us all killed."

She bit her tongue, not wanting to indulge him.

"I'm not here to help you destroy my husband," Pansy warned, turning away from him; between them, Harry's hand twitched towards her, as though he might have reached for her.

"I can see how this must look to you, Pansy," he ventured after a moment, taking a tentative step towards her. "But I assure you, I didn't come to you because I wished to bring Tom down."

"Then why?" she demanded, rounding on him. "Why would you - "

"I came to you because I want _you_ ," he said, his voice strangely bare; relentless, somehow, without its usual edge of irony. "I've never lied to you, Your Majesty, not once. Do I wish to see Tom fall? _Yes_ ," he spat firmly. "Yes, I do, and admitting that alone could get me killed, so do away with me if you really wish it - but I would hate for you to think," he murmured, softening, and consenting to reach out, aiming to brush a curl from her cheek, "that I could have ever used a moment of my time with you thinking of anything but _you_."

She swallowed, dancing out of his reach. "Why should I trust you?"

She wondered if it were only her imagination that he looked saddened by the motion of her retreat, his hand still suspended in the air between them.

"Perhaps you shouldn't," he conceded, withering slightly. "If it will help, I'll gladly put my life in your hands. Turn me in, if you wish," he implored her. "I'll willingly confess to you right now that I am Tom's enemy, through and through - but know before you do," he begged. "Before you unmask me to him, you have to know that I have spent every waking moment since I saw you wishing I could know what happens in your mind - that I could understand how it is that you can suffer so beautifully. That you can bear his crown and endure his disloyalty, and yet you let it make a marvel of you, instead of a mockery."

He paused, swallowing. "I admire you, Pansy. Your strength. I see it," he added, stepping closer again, though he kept his hands resolutely pinned to his sides. "I see you for what you are, and I see everything you fear, and the way you go on despite it. I see you," he said again, and she let out a breath. "I see you, Pansy," he pleaded, "I _see_ you - "

"Will you have me, then?" she asked him, tilting her chin up to look at him. "If I want you, will you have me?"

He blinked, surprised. "Your Majesty - "

"Harry, will you love me," she asked, begging her voice not to shake. "Will you love me if I ask?"

For once, he seemed lost for words, his eyes desperately searching her face before resting, reverently, on hers.

"I will love you," he told her, "whether you wish me to or not."

She stepped closer; so did he. She breathed, he breathed; and then she counted the raucous pulses that passed between them - _one, two, three_ \- before she slowly reached out, settling her palm carefully on his chest.

"Will you come to me?" she asked. "Tonight."

She felt his ribs expand beneath her touch, his lungs straining.

"Yes," he said, and the green of his eyes sparked and changed. "Yes, Pansy, I will."


	12. Declarations of War

**Chapter 12: Declarations of War**

"Queen Olympe's court is divided," Karkaroff said, leaning towards Tom. His tone was low, almost sultry, and frighteningly intimate, though Hermione was learning to expect that. She had come to learn that men spoke of power much as they did of women, likening themselves as captives to a lure - always seduced, or else bewitched.

The ambassador hadn't much acknowledged Hermione's presence, but she couldn't hold such a commonplace attitude against him. After all, few of Tom's noblemen spoke to her in his presence, and all things considered, she still found silence to be an improvement on gossip.

"It will be even easier than anticipated to take her down," Karkaroff continued, and Tom nodded, eyeing the jeweled goblet in his left hand without comment. "Provided you can get past your northern territories without any problems - "

"Problems," Tom cut in, glancing up, and on his right, Hermione frowned, also recognizing something off in Karkaroff's implication. "Why would I have problems, Karkaroff? The Borderlands are mine."

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty," Karkaroff assured him quickly. "But I had heard it told that you had some problems with one of the  _other_  northern regions. Grimmauld," he said, blinking furiously as he said it, and Hermione watched Tom's right hand clench a fist beneath the table, the base of his jeweled goblet smacking against the wood as he let his left hand fall. "Am I wrong, Your Majesty?" Karkaroff ventured nervously, his hesitant gaze following the motion. "Forgive me, I may have mishea- "

"You think the Duke of Grimmauld conspires against me," Tom growled, his knuckles sparking dangerously. The wine from his goblet had splashed onto his hands, staining his fingers crimson, and without thinking Hermione reached out, soothingly placing her left hand over his right.

There was a telling shift in the room the moment she touched the King. It was a gamble, she knew, to be so forward, but she'd done the calculations - measured the steps of the dance - and figured it far worse to see him lose his temper. Tom shifted slightly, stiffening for a moment, and then gradually relaxed, threading her fingers through his.

"What cause have you for doubt?" Tom prompted gruffly, addressing the ambassador again. "What have you heard?"

The other man fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Nothing concrete," Karkaroff assured him, though to Hermione's ear, it rang more placating than true. "Nothing more than whispers."

"Whispers are not nothing, Ambassador Karkaroff," Hermione commented, and he glanced at her, startled; as if he were acknowledging her for the first time as something other than a tapestry, or a decorative shoe. "I would think," she murmured, meeting his eye, "if someone heard whispers of you taking meetings with His Majesty" - she paused, gesturing pointedly to Tom - "would not  _those_  whispers be meaningful?"

Karkaroff's mouth contorted slightly with withheld disapproval as his gaze flicked testingly to Tom's, and then back to hers.

"Even at Beauxbatons, they tell stories of your wit, Lady Hermione," he ventured slowly. "But I think you'll find it misplaced at this table."

She forced herself not to react to the slight, knowing Tom was watching her.

"I serve the King in all things," she replied simply. "I would consider it my duty to warn him if I considered a path unwise."

Karkaroff's brow creased; likely he'd never been contradicted before, and certainly not by a woman not in possession of a title. "You forget yourself, My Lady," he warned. "As a foreign ambassador, I - "

"As a foreign ambassador bound to  _another monarch_ , your vested interest is hardly above reproach," Hermione returned, careful to retain a pointed neutrality in her tone. "Tell me, would you prefer the King to strip me bare? Shall I fuck him now on this table," she suggested, unblinking, "and whisper my advice into his ear? Because I assure you, my counsel is sound; but if you'd rather it come from the mouth of a whore," she invited, tilting her head coyly, "then so be it."

Karkaroff leaned back, aghast. "Lady Hermione, this is a civilized meeting - "

"Actually, it's a clandestine conspiracy," she corrected him, and glanced at Tom. "Do you object, Your Majesty?"

At that, Tom's blue eyes danced; he seemed, at once, back to normal, and his lips curled into his slow smile, the hand bound in hers shifting to settle itself comfortably against her thigh.

"As ever, the lady is endlessly wise," he told Karkaroff. "You see, then, why I rarely let her out of my sight."

Karkaroff's gaze drifted to Hermione, scrutinizing her; weighing his options, she supposed.

"She is a rarity, that's for certain," Karkaroff confirmed eventually, clearing his throat and tearing his gaze away from Hermione. "But as I was saying, Your Majesty," he continued, "provided you can progress without opposition, you would have aid from Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons is a palace unfit for battle. It would crumble in the first blow."

Tom nodded his approval before turning, locking eyes with Hermione.

"What do you think, My Lady?" he asked, carefully bringing her hand to his lips. He bent his head, brushing them reverently over her knuckles, and she held her breath, recognizing the truth of the motion.

It was a turning point; a subtle one. In the dance at court, this was an invitation, and not an ordinary one. This was a show of submission.

Before Karkaroff - before a man who outranked her, for him to bear witness - the King was deferring to  _her_.

Hermione let the breath out slowly, feeling a tingle down the expanse of her spine.

"If there is any truth to the so-called whispers surrounding the Duke of Grimmauld, it would be prudent to find it first," she said, locking her gaze on Tom's. "He seems your only obstacle, and therefore must be put aside before you begin your empire."

"Say I were to simply overpower him on campaign," Tom suggested in opposition, as Karkaroff eagerly nodded his agreement, sycophantic as always. "Could I not simply stamp him out on progress?" he asked, and then, expectantly, "or do you mean to suggest you doubt my prowess, My Lady?"

Hermione inhaled sharply, stumbling up to the edge of a diplomatic cliff. Were she another woman - Pansy, perhaps - she'd be expected to yield.

But she was not, and so she did not.

"How many wars do you wish to fight, Your Majesty?" she asked instead, shaking her head in warning. "Better to limit your squabbles at home and save your strength for your endeavors abroad, I should think. And which I'm sure you know perfectly well," she added, deliberately providing him a semblance of deference, "and therefore will undoubtedly come upon a solution before Ambassador Karkaroff's departure."

Tom smiled brilliantly.

"A fine little queen, isn't she?" he pronounced, turning back to Karkaroff. "Like a man, only far sweeter on the eyes. Better, even," he amended, winking at her, "as she's far less a fool than any man I've ever known. You included," he added, resuming his hold on his goblet and laughing into the bell of it as Karkaroff's face flushed slightly, nodding with tentative agreement.

"I must ask, Your Majesty," he said. "As to our arrangement - "

"Yes, yes, Karkaroff, you'll be rewarded," Tom assured him, waving a hand. "You'll have your ancestral land restored, and gain a place at Hogwarts in exchange for your loyalty. A seat among my other Loyalists," he clarified buoyantly, "and what a happy court we shall be."

At Karkaroff's nod of relief, Tom turned, his gaze traveling the details of Hermione's face. "Perhaps by then," he murmured, leaning towards her, "we'll all be rid of our nuisances, won't we?"

At the implication in his expression, intimate and beckoning, Hermione held her breath. This, she knew, was no dance.

This was a promise.

"I'll serve you however I can, Your Majesty," she said, a promise in exchange, and licked dryness from her lips. Tom smiled, suddenly kissing her fingers again and then rising, pulling her up beside him.

"Shall we celebrate?" he asked, filling the room with exuberance. "Come, let us join the rest of our court. We'll dress for dinner," he permitted, nodding to Karkaroff, "and luxuriate in the future of our fine kingdom, shall we?"

"Hear, hear," Karkaroff trumpeted enthusiastically, and Tom gestured to the door, summoning him forward.

"Have Severus show you to your rooms," Tom advised, and then, as Karkaroff pulled the door open to pass through it, he turned suddenly, startling Hermione as he pressed her back against the table.

"You're my little muse, aren't you?" he murmured in her ear, his hands tight around her waist as he chuckled in her ear. "You'll make an artist of me yet."

"Is war your landscape?" she teased, breathless, as he bent his lips to her neck. "Or is it portraiture you aspire to, Tom?"

At that, he paused, leaning back to look at her. A thousand thoughts seemed to cross his mind at once, but they all seemed to be of her; as if he were imagining her at the center of his world.

"I'll make such a fine piece out of you," he told her hungrily, and for a moment, she wondered if he planned to take her right there, carelessly bending her over the table. "You'll be the jewel of my kingdom, my little lioness," he said, savoring the thought, "and men like Karkaroff will fall to their knees before you."

She swallowed, forcing herself not to betray the leap in her stomach at the thought.

"Will they?" she asked carefully, blinking, and he leaned back, taking her face in his hands.

"You'll look resplendent in a crown," he whispered, and her heart thudded wildly, seeing it in flashes, reflected in his eyes;  _glory, and a crown -_

She cleared herself of the vision, suffering the heat of his touch.

"We should dress for dinner," she suggested, her voice strangely hoarse, and he pressed a kiss to her lips; it was urgent and desperate, snatching the breath from her lungs and then all at once gone, distance filling the space between them as he took a step back, offering her a playful bow.

"Keep an eye to Harry this evening, will you?" he asked her. "Not too intensive a study, though. I'll want you tonight," he said, and then he left the room with a laugh, striding through it and taking with him all illumination, leaving her staring at the flicker of the fireplace behind her.

It took more than a spare moment to catch her breath; she was wanted elsewhere, she knew. Expected, most likely, to be at the Queen's side. She stared into the fire, lifting a hand, and toyed with the flame.

Raised it;  _he lures you -_

Suppressed it;  _cast aside, but never again -_

"You should tell him to be careful," she heard behind her, and jumped, leaping back and swiveling to face the door.

"With what?" she demanded, glaring at Draco Malfoy.

He stepped into the room, stalking towards her.

"Don't play stupid, Granger, it's not a good look for you," Draco muttered, and scanned the room - noting the goblets on the table - before fixating on her. "What's the King meeting with Karkaroff about?  _Alone_ ," he added emphatically, with an obvious indication of irritation. "Without even Mulciber, or my father - "

"He had me," she reminded him pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest and then succumbing to a need to press him; to mock him, to watch his face falter. "What need does he have for your pitiful flatterer of a father," she beckoned, "when he can have  _actual_  counsel?"

The insult registered in flashes of rage, and she delighted in his obvious anger.

"Do  _not_ ," Draco hissed, taking hold of her arm and wresting her back, "speak that way of my father."

"Let go of me, you tyrant," Hermione retorted, snatching her arm from his grasp. "You can't seriously think I'd tell you a word of what passes in the King's confidence."

Draco's grey eyes narrowed. "If he's pushing us to war, I think that concerns me more than it does you," he returned flatly. "After all, it'll be  _my_  men who die - "

"Oh, don't pretend you're so concerned," Hermione snapped. "Resent me all you like, Malfoy, but you know perfectly well you'll be following your King regardless.  _My_  contributions - "

"Your contribution," Draco snapped, cutting her off, "is that you make him reckless. Unstable. For you he disregards his Loyalists," he growled, "and for you he puts aside his better judgment - "

"And I do this with what, my siren flesh?" Hermione prompted brusquely, scoffing. "Your King wanted war long before he wanted me, Malfoy."

He bit his tongue on a retort; possessing no argument, she assumed, and wanted to laugh.

"As I said, you should warn him to be careful," Draco hissed. "This court is more divided than he thinks," he warned, and took a brutish step, backing her against the wall.

She clenched a fist, furious.

"You think you can intimidate me," she accused him, feeling a rush of power in her palms and wondering, momentarily, what it would be like to toy with him; to force him to his knees. "You no more scare me than the wind, Draco Malfoy," she said, and set her jaw. "All you are is  _air_."

"Oh, I don't think so, Granger," he said, flashing his teeth as he forced a cutting smile. "You think your position is safe, but you know as well as I do this court is hardly stable. Should the King make poor choices," he warned, "there are others we can rally behind.  _Other,_  specifically," he clarified, his eyes flashing, "with a legal claim to the throne."

For the first time, he managed to take her by surprise, and she stared at him, taken aback.

"Do you really mean to suggest that you'd side with Harry just to spite me?" she demanded, her throat going dry. "You can't really think I'd believe that."

Alarmingly, Draco laughed.

" _Just_  to spite you?" he asked, mouth twisting darkly in amusement as he took another step, resting one hand beside her head. "Granger, I'd burn this castle to the ground if it meant you'd go down with it."

"Big words," she forced out, glaring up at him. "But we both know you'd never disregard your father's wishes, and he's as bound to me as any man at this court."

"By all means, believe what you wish," Draco returned haughtily. "But I wonder," he mused, with a biting edge of meanness, "who will stand for you if Tom falls,  _Lady_  Hermione?"

She forced herself not to let him shake her; compelled herself not to feel the fear intended by the taunt.

"You'd never put a Peverell on the throne," she challenged, calling his bluff. "You and I both know that."

"Who says I want Harry on the throne?" he countered, shrugging. "Perhaps a threat to Tom is all that's necessary to show him how gravely he's erred in turning to  _you_  - "

She shoved him back a step in fury, watching his eyes widen as he stumbled over his footing.

"You think you're safe from me," Hermione seethed, suppressing the rush of opposition in her veins that would have stopped his heart on sight. "You're not."

She was glad to see him struggle to recover.

"Funny," he managed. "You think  _you're_  safe, and yet we can't possibly both be right, can we? Let me go ahead and solve that little conundrum for you, Granger," he told her, his voice thick with contempt as he took another step towards her. " _My_  blood will outlast yours every time," he promised, and compelled her back another step.

As her shoulders hit the wall behind her Hermione realized, firstly, that this was the only dance at court she'd ever truly understood, and secondly, that it was not a dance at all. It was  _savagery_ , the wreckage of bared teeth and a fight, and she, who'd been born to claw her way up, reveled in the gore of it.

"I'll see you look up at me from your knees, Draco Malfoy," she said to him, her face inches from his as she met his gaze with triumph. "I'll see you beg me for forgiveness, or else beg me for your life."

"You," he beckoned, the motion swelling in his throat as he leaned closer, his mouth beside her ear, "will have your head on the block before I ever look down at you again."

She leaned away, smiling sweetly at him.

"Challenge accepted," she said, and shoved him away, sweeping through the door without looking back.

* * *

Dinner was unbearable.

Tom, for reasons Pansy could only surmise with suspicion, was unexpectedly buoyant; he seemed to laugh louder, smile broader, indulging more luxuriantly in the revelry of his court. Several times he leaned over, his gaze tracing the line of Hermione's neck, and from her usual place beside him, Pansy might otherwise have flinched; but instead she occupied herself with the effort at forcing her attention from Harry, trying not to watch him sidle up to the Ambassador's men.

She wondered what could ever make him believe he was safe - that he was  _invisible_ , his head bent with Poliakoff and Krum - when she herself could scarcely tear her eyes from his.

He looked up, catching her gaze, and smiled.

"You'll get yourself killed," she told him, the words spilling from her lips the moment he came to her room. She wished she could have kept herself from the door but it seemed a fool's endeavor to try, and she'd been there the moment he'd slipped through it. "You can't - you'll have to - "

"Stop looking at you?" he prompted, stepping towards her. "Obviously easier said than done," he teased, "or else how would you have seen me looking?"

She scowled.

"You'll get caught," she warned, and swallowed. "Killed."

At that, he softened.

"Is this fear, Your Majesty? Concern for me?" he asked, reaching out and stroking her cheek. "It looks good on you," he whispered, taking another step to take her face in his hands. "Puts a little color in your cheeks. Not to worry though," he assured her, one hand slipping to trace the curve of her throat, drawing a finger towards her clavicle. "Tom's days are numbered, and then I'll have you set free."

"Set free?" she echoed, skeptical. "You mean re-mastered, I presume."

"You wouldn't have to have me," he murmured, his other hand tangling in her hair. "Only if you wanted to, Pansy. You'd have whatever you wanted, my Queen," he promised, his lips brushing her ear. "My head, if you wanted it. Better yet my heart," he added, pulling back to grin, "which is about as easy to catch, I think."

She sighed. "You make reckless promises," she reminded him. "You're not the only one who'd be killed if you got caught, you know."

"Like I'd put you at risk," he said, tracing his fingers over her neck. "Never. And besides, Tom needs you alive," he added wryly, "just as he needs me dead."

His hands slipped, pulling her closer, until one rested on her hip and the other between her scapulae, pressing her against him.

"Harry," she warned, dizzied, and he smiled.

"Ron's going back with his brothers tomorrow," he murmured to her. "I'm securing support from Poliakoff and Krum. Karkaroff thinks he owns them, but - "

"Stop." Pansy glanced down, her thumb slipping against the gaping fabric of his shirt and digging into his skin. "You'd make me a traitor and a whore all at once," she sighed, shaking her head; her fingers were closed in fists against his chest, still half at war with him even as she longed for him. "I prefer my crimes in manageable doses, Harry," she managed to command, looking up to meet his eye. "One thing at a time."

"Ah, there she is," he remarked, smiling. "My cunning Queen. Plausible deniability," he noted, backing her against the post of her bed. "Will I ever divest you of your armor?"

He yanked up the fabric of her shift, pointedly sliding a hand against her thigh, and she shivered.

"You ask so much from me," she told him, though it hardly seemed worth remarking. Privately, she was certain that she'd sealed her fate long ago.

She'd die, surely. For something, for many things; for disloyalty, for adultery, for treason.

For want of him.

"Should I stop, then, Pansy?" he asked her, curving his palm under her leg to draw it up over his hip. "Should I leave," he murmured, "and save your life again?"

It seemed unfair that it would cost him nothing to suggest something so achingly true.

She wondered, too, if it would ever be more than a game; if she'd been given too much by having him, and for the rest of time would be forced to suffer for its falseness.

"I was dead when you found me," she said instead, and while she'd intended it to be flat, to be an unambiguous truth, there was a specter of hope inside it; an admission, a waver, as she lost her footing in the dance. "At this point," she confessed, unable to look him in the eye, "I'm living on borrowed time."

He paused, then, his shoulders shifting beneath the weight of what she'd said, and he looked up to meet her gaze, locking eyes with hers.

Green. The color had haunted her;  _would_  haunt her, boundlessly.

He drew her chin up, kissing her slowly.

"I won't fail you," he whispered to her, the promise melting sweetly in her mouth. "I will never fail you."

"You're a gambler, Harry," she reminded him. "A rogue." She swallowed, shaking her head. "False promises are just one of the guidelines written in your book."

"My book? Of - "

She sighed. "Of  _roguery_ , yes," she muttered, and he kissed her again; half idolatry, half laughter.

"Are you a gambler, too, then, Majesty?" Harry asked. "Tell me, what do you think of the purse?" he prompted, stepping back and rotating slowly, deliberately, with a staggeringly lurid version of his merciless grin. "Worth a play, perhaps?"

"Let me see," Pansy beckoned, reaching out to catch the hem of his shirt. "Does it dance?"

"Try me," he suggested, taking hold of her waist and setting her back on the bed, playfully straddling her as he stripped his shirt from his chest, letting it fall to the floor. "Is it a pavane you want, Your Majesty?" he asked, nipping playfully at her ear. "A volta?" he murmured, leaping back and adjusting to settle himself on his knees, sliding his hands up the lengths of her thighs.

"How close should I hold you, Pansy?" he asked, watching her face change.

She inhaled sharply as he drew the material up, skating it over her leg. "Scandalize me," she invited, feigning irreverent dismissal, and he smiled.

"Now that," he said, leaning to brush his lips against the curve of her breast, "I can unequivocally promise."

* * *

"Something's bothering you," Tom remarked, his lips buried in Hermione's shoulder as he pulled her up, settling her in his lap. "What is it?"

She shifted, leaning back against his chest. "Draco Malfoy," she muttered, and Tom chuckled softly in her ear. "I hate him."

"Yes, I've heard," he permitted. "Something new?"

She turned, staring at him. "He conspires against you," she told him, frowning. "And you can really just laugh it off?"

"You forget, my lioness, how easily I can see through people," he commented, nipping at her shoulder and then stroking a line down her abdomen, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. "He's no more dangerous than his lackey of a father," he added in her ear, laughing again, "but it's ever so charming of you to worry about me."

"Don't patronize me," she snapped, recognizing the stubborn indignation in her tone and persisting regardless. "How can you be so certain? He hinted that he would throw his allegiance to Harry, you know - "

"Hinted," Tom scoffed, shrugging. "His intent is to rile you up. Nothing more."

She grumbled her disagreement.

"Wouldn't it be easier to get rid of him?" she demanded. "What does he contribute to your court?"

"His land," Tom said. "His coffers." He rested his chin against her shoulder. "Despite your opposition, he's not without some value, Hermione."

"He  _is_ ," she muttered, but sighed as he slid his lips to the back of her neck, easing a line of kisses down her spine. "When you say you can see through him," she asked, frowning. "Is that like what you did before, when you entered my thoughts?"

"Mm," he confirmed vacantly, and she turned, locking eyes with him.

"Teach me," she demanded, pulling away, and Tom's brow creased at the loss of her, like a child whose toy had been taken from reach. "You've let my education lag yet again, Tom," she warned, brandishing a finger, "with all your little war games."

His lips quirked up in amusement.

"Very well," he agreed, and fixed his gaze on hers. "It's easier than what I taught you before," he explained, his face taking on the look of veneration that always arrived when he spoke of magic; of any kind of power. "To control your own mind is far more difficult than to peer into someone else's - not that such things are so easily opened at will," he amended, and she nodded. "Don't think of it as opening a door. Think of it as slipping in through a window."

Hermione frowned. "How?"

He shrugged. "Using your power doesn't always have to be some crude equivalent of bullying your will upon others," Tom said airily. "Observation and perception are powerful methods of finessing one's way into another's mind. The eyes," he commented, gesturing to hers. "They tell you something about a person's thoughts. To see further - "

He paused, and she felt something tapping in her mind; she forced it out, and he smiled.

"You'll not let me in, then," he remarked. "Something to hide, I wonder?"

"Stick to the lesson, Tom," she admonished, swatting at him. "How are you doing it?"

"Ah, always so literal," he said, tutting as he shook his head; affectionate disapproval. "The mind is complex. It's less a matter of doing than  _interpreting_ , Hermione." He leaned towards her, taking a curl of her hair and wrapping it slowly around his finger, eyeing the warmth of the strand. "Whose mind do you plan to master?" he asked her softly, his gaze shifting to her lips. "Is this for Draco?" he pressed, unable to suppress another smile. "Or Harry?"

"This," she told him, her breath quickening as he drew her closer, "is because I'm no jewel at all until I'm polished, Tom. After all - " he kissed her, softly, and she inhaled sharply, his hands drawing up her thigh. "After all," she pressed, speaking into his mouth, "you've said yourself that it does you no good to limit my powers." She paused, running her fingers along the edge of his jaw. "Was this what you meant when you said you'd have need of me?" she asked him. "Have you always intended me as a weapon?"

He sighed, loftily disappointed.

"Nothing so inelegant as that," he assured her, roughly flipping her onto her back and then yanking her hips towards him, holding her legs on either side of his torso. "But think," he murmured. "What force on earth could defeat us when the two of us combine?"

"None," she realized, and blinked, suddenly realizing the truth of the statement. "This is hardly war at all for you, then, is it?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows. "It's only a game, and one you know you can win."

He shrugged in confirmation.

"You're not wrong that Harry presents a problem," he acknowledged. "Better not to overexert ourselves on his little mutiny. Just because victory is assured," he added drily, his fingers tightening around her hips, "doesn't mean we must resort to inefficiency."

"I'm relieved you still think so," she murmured, as he slid his hand against her slit. "You seem a bit imbalanced in your search for greatness, Tom. I'd caution you not to overreach."

Something in his expression stiffened.

"Caution me," he echoed, displeased, and then he entered her a bit too roughly, causing her to let out a hiss of dissatisfaction. "Is that doubt I hear, Hermione?"

"You ask so much from me," she told him, gritting her teeth. He thrusted slowly, but not gently, bearing down on her and lording over her, his chest gleaming in the dim, flickering light. "What will you do to keep  _me_ happy, Tom?"

"Have I not promised you enough?" he asked gruffly. "You and I will rule together, Hermione. Immortal King and Queen," he added, arousal filling his mouth at the thought and dripping from his lips in hushed, hallowed words. "More gods than monarchs."

"Sounds blasphemous," she remarked, her breathing unsteady as he picked up speed, and he smiled darkly.

"My Queen," he whispered to her, thrusting faster, and she let her head fall back with a moan. "What will you do with your power, Hermione?"

Her head spun; her lungs ached.

"What will you do," he pressed, "when every man and woman in this kingdom bows to you?"

She closed her eyes, the image of the crown gleaming against the backs of her lids.

"Say it again," she said hoarsely, digging her nails into his sides. "Again, Tom - "

"My Queen," he said, his hand stroking her as he fucked her, and she let out a gasp. "My Queen."

It built and coiled, rushed forth and swayed, and when the sky of red once again filled her mind she shoved it at arm's length, filling her mind instead with the sweat down the crevices of Tom's stomach, the sharp edges of his hips against her thighs.

_Glory, and a crown -_

"Tom," she gasped, a guttural cry, and she saw him smile.

"My Queen," he said, the words syncopated with the motion of his hips. "My Queen, my Queen, my Queen - "

She came, euphoric in agony, and writhed beneath the promises that spilled from his lips.

* * *

Pansy woke to Harry's lips on her forehead; to the smell of him in her sheets, the breeze of his absence as he slipped out of her bedroom.

 _Your Majesty,_  he'd murmured, slipping the thin shift from her shoulders to leave her bare, admiring her with a sweeping glance of longing.  _You're flawless._

She closed her eyes, reliving it; the way he'd slid beneath her legs, leaving her to straddle his head as he kissed her slowly, his tongue flicking delicately over her cunt the way he'd known she liked.

 _Your Majesty,_  he'd said, as she buried her fingers in his hair.

 _Do you think of me?_  she heard him ask, and felt a quiet moan slip from her lips, feeling the slickness between her legs at the thought, even after a night spent with him.  _I thought you might feel me -_

She slid her fingers down her thighs.

 _Your Majesty,_  he said, and she had learned that riding him was not at all as it had been with Tom. It was no brusque exercise in force, and his touch had not dug cruelly into her waist; instead Harry had wrapped the sheets around her, pulling her closer, staring unapologetically at her face and drawing his fingers over her lips in veneration.

 _Your Majesty,_  he'd said, and she gasped as she touched the moisture between her legs, missing him already. She marveled that it could be so different; that with one man she could expect and dread it simultaneously, a chore without reward, and with the other she would crave it, forcefully. She felt awed by the knowledge that it was possible to share pleasure, and though she was never unsatisfied when Harry left her, she knew she'd never fully be sated, knowing that this - that  _he_  - had the audacity to exist, and yet did so out of reach.

He treated her like a queen and still it was the moment he abandoned her title that had torn her still-beating heart from her chest; his green eyes were wild as they met hers, spilling the sound of her name into her mouth.

 _Your Majesty,_  he'd said so often, but it was  _Pansy_  on his tongue that had brought her to collapse.

 _How cruel that life would give so indulgently_ , she'd thought in the moment, coveting his cheek as he pulled her close,  _with only intent to take away._

"Your Majesty," she heard, startling her, and abruptly sat up, finding that there was a voice on the other side of the door. She glanced around, scrambling, and pulled her dressing gown from the floor, slipping into her shift and wrapping the gown tightly around her.

"One moment," she called impatiently, struggling to set the sheets into some kind of unsuspicious order and then adjusting herself on top of them, trying to catch her breath. "Come in," she called, wondering how long she had taken, and cleared her throat. "Something simple today, Lady Hannah," she said as the door opened, "I don't think I can - "

She stopped, catching an unexpected glimpse of chestnut curls.

"Oh," she said flatly, as Hermione slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. "I hadn't expected to see you."

Hermione curtseyed unobtrusively. "I serve you, don't I?"

"Ha," Pansy sniffed. "I should think you'd do well to remember that."

Hermione lips twisted into something of a smile, and Pansy sighed.

"Fine," she permitted moodily. "As I said, something simple."

"Of course," Hermione said, hesitantly stepping towards her and gathering some pins, letting Pansy shift on the bed for better access and then placing herself behind her. "How is Your Majesty feeling this morning?" she asked, and Pansy bristled, annoyed with the pretense.

"I'm well enough, considering," Pansy muttered. "Taking any meetings with Ambassador Karkaroff today?" she prompted at a drawl, and waited; she expected Hermione's hands to falter in her curls, but felt no noticeable reaction.

Figured, she supposed. A woman like Hermione Granger did not simply rise without some requisite talent for deception.

"If the King asks for my presence, I don't see how I could refuse," Hermione answered, with a marked air of caution. "Surely you and I abide by the same fundamental law where it comes to His Majesty."

"I'm not sure you and I abide by any commonalities," Pansy returned, staring into the fireplace. "Cold again," she noted brusquely, adding a shudder for effect. "Your fingers are like a corpse's."

"Forgive me," Hermione said neutrally, withdrawing her hands for a moment. "Poor circulation."

Pansy managed an incomprehensible grumble in return, shrugging.

"Your Majesty," Hermione said after a moment, returning to her ministrations. "I wonder if I might ask you for your counsel."

Pansy grimaced.

"Avoid other women's husbands," she suggested.

Hermione paused, her grip loosening on Pansy's hair.

"We waste our time at odds," she said, sounding unexpectedly disappointed. "I'd hoped we wouldn't have to play games."

"Hope is a foolish thing for a woman to possess," Pansy retorted darkly. "But there's little I can do to stop you if you wish to be candid."

"I do," Hermione said simply, resuming her work. "I worry there's some unrest among the court."

"How lofty of you," Pansy remarked. "I didn't realize matters of amicability among nobles concerned you."

"Concerns us all, I should think," Hermione said. "It was bloody when Tom took the throne, wasn't it?" she asked, and Pansy felt her own spine go rigid, sensing entry to dangerous territory. "I'd hate to think - "

"Does he know you speak against him?" Pansy interrupted, turning to face her. "Far be it from me to presume you capable of treason, but if you plan to trap  _me_  - "

"No trap," Hermione assured her quickly. "We are women, Your Majesty. The pretty shadows of court," she said grimly, "so our voices count for less than the value of a breeze. I merely wondered," she pressed, meeting Pansy's eye, "whether we should be concerned."

"We?" Pansy echoed, dismayed. "Our places are not the same, Hermione."

Hermione did not tear her gaze away. "Let me rephrase, then. Do you stand to lose if Tom loses?" she asked, and Pansy leaned back, aghast.

"This - this is not - " Pansy frowned. "You shouldn't - "

"If Tom loses favor, you're free, aren't you?" Hermione pressed. "If Tom is displaced, what of you?"

Pansy halted abruptly, startled, as she considered it for the first time.

"I - " she swallowed. "If -  _if_ ," she repeated emphatically, "anything were ever to threaten the King's reign, the Loyalists would surely suffer for it. Stripped of their lands and titles at worst, my father included."

"But  _you_ ," Hermione insisted. "You carry favor with others, don't you? Not just the Loyalists?"

Pansy's blood seemed to ricochet in her ears.

"I don't know what you mean," she said slowly, though she wasn't quite sure whether it was a lie.

At that, Hermione shifted, sitting beside Pansy on the bed and meeting her troubled gaze.

"I've seen the way the Duke of Grimmauld looks at you," Hermione said quietly, and by contrast Pansy's heart pounded, violently loud. "If he challenged Tom and won, he would surely vie for your affections, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know," Pansy said, and again, she wasn't certain whether it was a lie. "I certainly don't wish such things upon my husband."

"What is it about you that Harry covets?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, and Pansy felt dizzied;  _invaded_ , mentally, though she couldn't quite put a finger on why. "Is it you he wants, or is it your land? Your status?"

"You mistake the Duke of Grimmauld for a man capable of plotting," Pansy said, her breath quickening as she managed, for once, to lie with spectacular fortitude. "Even the King will tell you Harry's not capable of anything so underhanded, and - "

She stopped, blinking.

Harry's name had slipped from her lips, and she couldn't imagine for the life of her how she'd managed to let her mask slip.

Hermione, on the other hand, seemed either unfazed or unsatisfied.

"His feelings for you," she prompted. "Are they returned?"

"I - you're - " Pansy blinked, shaking her head. "You overstep."

"Yes, as usual, I do," Hermione agreed, listless. "Answer the question."

Pansy bristled.

"I have no idea what Lord Henry's feelings are, with regard to me or anything else," Pansy snapped. "You know this court as well as I do, Hermione, and you know perfectly well that I'd be put to death if I so much as  _suspected_  I knew the answer. If the Duke of Grimmauld plots against Tom, then - "

"He  _does_ ," Hermione said. "We know he does, and that's not at question. But do you plot  _with_  him?" she pressed. "Do you side with the man you married, Pansy, or do your loyalties lie with the man who loves you?"

It was incomprehensible that they were having this conversation.

"How - how dare you," Pansy managed, feeling an incapacitating numbness. "Steal my husband if you must," she spat, "but leave me some dignity, some  _respect -_ "

"If Harry fights Tom," Hermione prompted, "will you fight with him?"

The question was too much; Pansy shut her eyes, forcing her head to clear, and opened them, her vision swimming with the brown of Hermione's eyes.

And then, for a moment, she felt herself latch onto clarity.

"You want my crown," Pansy realized, staring at her. "Is that it?"

Hermione drew back, her brow furrowing. "What?"

"I had thought you simply a whore," Pansy commented, shaking her head. "But you're a viper, too, aren't you?"

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it, apparently thinking better of it.

"Is that what you think this is? I hardly have any need to deceive you," Hermione remarked, looking oddly insulted, considering the topic at hand. "You and I both know Tom would rather see me in your place, and there's nothing duplicitous about admitting it."

"But you'd further it along, though, wouldn't you?" Pansy asked, as Hermione's expression failed to change. "And why not, really?" Pansy pressed bitterly, not sure whether she were being cruel or simply honest. "Seems reasonable enough. After all, if I could see  _you_  gone," she permitted, "I can't say that I wouldn't try."

Hermione paused.

"Really?" she asked, and Pansy blinked, finding the question unexpected.

She wondered, then, what she would do if she learned the other woman's life was threatened. Thus far Hermione had played her cards astoundingly well; it seemed that her hold over the King was akin to supernatural enchantment.  _Love_ , even, if Pansy could believe it possible of either Hermione or Tom.

But then, as Daphne had said, infatuation had similar symptoms, and such things so easily faded for powerful men; so perhaps it was not so inconceivable a notion.

"I'd happily be rid of you," Pansy asserted eventually, though even as she spoke, the words felt hollow, scarcely settling on her tongue. "Why shouldn't I assume you'd think the same of me?"

"Is this war, then?" Hermione asked. "Are we to fight it out like men?"

"Like  _men_?" Pansy echoed, scoffing. "If we were men, I might have had the opportunity not to hate you. As it is, you stand to ruin me," she said pointedly. "You're smarter than a man, and so am I, and so only one of us can be left standing, don't you think?"

"True," Hermione permitted. "Though mutually assured destruction seems rather barbaric."

She met Pansy's eye, half-smiling, but it was horrifically unfunny, as true things often are; they paused for a moment instead, marinating in what was to come.

"I envy your position," Pansy couldn't help remarking, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

Pansy glanced askance, offering her an ambivalent shrug. "You have only to rise," she murmured. "Whereas I have only to fall."

To her surprise, Hermione let out a scoff.

"I have only to rise because I was born at the bottom," Hermione reminded her. "Without Tom's affections, I'd have died in some village with ten children and half a penny, left to rot in the dirt."

"And I," Pansy contributed, "might have lost my husband's attention to some idiot like Hannah or Lavender. Though, admittedly," she said dully, "I would at least have managed to live without the threat of conspiracy."

"That you know of," Hermione murmured.

It was hard not to laugh; bitterly, and they did.

"They cursed us, the Fates," Hermione commented after a moment, shaking her head. "They must not really be women."

"No," Pansy agreed. "They must not." She shifted then, facing Hermione. "If you were Tom," she asked, "would you be so cruel?"

"If you were Harry," Hermione countered, "would you be so reckless?"

 _No,_  they both knew, and suffered it.

For a moment, Pansy wanted to sob, or to vomit; to expel some sickness from her lungs, from her throat, from the core of her being, if only to rid herself of the weight.

"What a gift it is, to be born a man," she commented, repulsed, and Hermione, too, swallowed heavily.

"I regret having to destroy you," Hermione said, looking down at her lap. "Be careful, Pansy."

Strangely, Pansy felt herself conjure a smile.

"Likewise," she said, and shifted. "Now fix my fucking hair."

* * *

Hermione held the vial Minerva had given her tightly in her hands, her heart pounding in her chest as she made her way through the Queen's chambers.

She hadn't needed it. She was powerful, after all, and pregnancy was not likely to occur when she could simply draw ice from within her veins at will; she could stop her own heart if she wanted. Contraception was hardly at issue.

No; she didn't need it, which Minerva couldn't have known.

But that didn't mean it couldn't serve a purpose.

"Lady Nott," Hermione said, finding Daphne and pulling her aside. "I need to speak to you."

"Lady Hermione," Daphne said in alarm, looking over her shoulder. Searching for Pansy, most likely, Hermione thought; a reflex born out of a loyalty that Hermione herself had never enjoyed. "Is everything alright?"

"I need you to give something to the Queen for me," she said, and thrust the vial into Daphne's hand, watching her hazel eyes widen. "It's savin," Hermione explained. "And mint. For - "

"I know what it's for," Daphne cut in, her voice hushed. She pulled Hermione into her chambers, shaking her head. "These are  _illegal_ , Lady Hermione," she hissed, blinking furiously. "You can't possibly believe that the Queen wou- "

"I'm not asking you to confirm anything," Hermione cut in, holding up a hand. "If there's anything you know, don't tell me. I don't wish to hear it."

Daphne gaped at her. "But - "

"This is the only favor I will offer her," Hermione pressed quietly. "Do you understand?"

Daphne looked down at the vial. "Hermione - "

"The king is escalating," Hermione cut in again, her breath quickened. "He is escalating, and I will not suppress my rise. I will save her life, I'll spare her the depths of his anger, but nothing more. Do you understand?" Daphne opened her mouth, and Hermione shook her head warningly. "It's a yes or a no, Lady Nott," she demanded fiercely.

Daphne's fingers closed slowly around the vial before she shook her head, battling with herself, and tucked it into her dress.

"I understand," she said, nodding slowly. "I'll give it to her."

Hermione swallowed, unexpectedly relieved.

"Good," she said brusquely. "Be sure to leave me out of it when you do."

At that, Daphne seemed genuinely surprised.

"Leave you out of it?" she asked. "And not reveal the kindest thing you've ever done for her, Hermione?"

"I'm not doing this for her," Hermione countered, glowering. "This is for my conscience. She made her bed, and she'll have to lie in it, but you and I both know she faces the harshest of penalties if she carries another man's child.  _Especially_  Harry's," she added, and grimaced at the thought. "I would have thought you'd have given her better counsel, Lady Nott."

If Daphne suffered either the slight or the accusation, she was too careful to let it show.

"We are all fools to something," Daphne replied. "Better to be fools to love than slaves to power, I say."

"Only the privileged can say things like that," Hermione retorted. "If it's love Pansy wants, then love's what she'll have; but she won't have the crown," she finished darkly. "She doesn't get to have both."

Daphne shook her head, searching Hermione's face until she forced her gaze away.

"You begin a war with a peace offering," Daphne murmured. "How very strange of you, Hermione."

Hermione flinched, shaking her head.

"We are women, are we not?" Hermione insisted. "We fight our wars first and foremost with the world, and only when there's energy left over do we turn our delicate claws to each other."

Daphne sighed. "Are you so sure you wish Pansy to lose?" she asked. "Perhaps she would make a fine ally."

"Perhaps she would, had I not already stolen from her," Hermione permitted. "In some other life, I suppose, where my survival and hers were not so fragilely balanced. But as it is - "

"But as it is, a war," Daphne supplied sadly, and turned away, pausing just before exiting. "A pity you'll have to bury each other," she commented, and Hermione let out a breath, saying nothing as she watched the other woman go.

Hermione stood for a moment, contemplating her next move.

"How many wars can you fight," she asked the empty air, "before you rip yourself in two?"

There was no response, either celestial or otherwise; no surprise there.

After all, she'd always been alone.


	13. Holding Aces

**Chapter 13: Holding Aces**

_For the first time since her coronation, Pansy finally feels like a Queen; even with Tom's attention elsewhere, there is no denying that the eyes of the court are on her, and it is with their adoration that she shines more brilliantly than she had thought possible since her rival's manifestation at court. The private meetings between her husband and Karkaroff continue, true; but the more seemingly enraptured with the ambassador that Tom becomes, the more openly Karkaroff's nobles defer to Pansy in the King's absence._

_Harry, she notices, curries favor as well. With Ron's absence from court, Harry is more often seen in the company of Poliakoff or Krum, and though it appears innocent, Pansy knows it is not._

**oOo**

"I noticed that you've gained some admirers," Daphne noted, removing the ceremonial crown from its carved mahogany box and placing it gingerly on Pansy's head, careful not to disturb Hannah's work on her elegant silken twist. "Is it just me, or was Poliakoff unable to take his eyes off you for most of yesterday's ride?"

"Hardly," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I hardly think you can comment on that particular ride. Is Lord Nott ill again?" she posed innocently, batting her lashes at Daphne. "You dismissed yourself quite early, didn't you?"

There was a moment of hesitation, Daphne's hands momentarily pausing. "I was tired," she said carefully. "In fact, it seems I tire rather easily as of late. I also feel quite unsettled," she ventured, seeming to lean into the word. "Particularly in the mornings."

Pansy caught the reflection of Daphne's mouth curling coyly upwards, a quick, reflexive motion that prompted Pansy to still her hands, turning to face her.

"Daphne," she said slowly, "you're not actually  _ill_ , are you?"

"No," Daphne replied, somewhat mischievously. "I'm rather well, in fact."

"Daphne," Pansy said again, watching color rise in her friend's cheeks. "Are you looking, perhaps, more  _aglow_  than usual?"

"If Your Majesty says so, then I'm sure it must be true," Daphne demurred, and Pansy leapt to her feet, taking Daphne by the shoulders.

"Lady Nott," she exhaled, as Daphne's hazel eyes crinkled with laughter. "My god, woman, are you with child?"

"It's early still," Daphne replied breathlessly, "and I wasn't - I hadn't thought it appropriate to say anything official yet, but - "

"Daphne!" Pansy exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the other woman tightly before withdrawing, ushering Daphne to a chair beside her dressing table. "Here, sit, you should be resting - "

"I'm not  _infirm_ ," Daphne protested, sighing, though she permitted Pansy to press her back into the chair, her arm resting beside the chessboard from the evening prior. "I'm simply pregnant. Astonishingly, I believe other women have managed the condition before - "

"Yes, but  _this_  baby," Pansy cooed, her hands floating to Daphne's waist. "This baby is a Loyalist. This baby is on my side, isn't he?" she asked, stooping to speak directly to the decorative sash around Daphne's stomach. "You know I could always use more of those, can't I?"

"Forget the Loyalists," Daphne said, nudging Pansy away with a laugh. "You realize Poliakoff's interest isn't misplaced, don't you? You're a prize, Pansy," she insisted, pointedly lifting a brow. "In your own right."

"Ah yes, the forgotten wife, what a  _prize_ ," Pansy acknowledged drily, and Daphne shook her head.

"You misunderstand your role," Daphne cautioned, gesturing to the chess board on the table. "You are a Queen," Daphne reminded her, tapping the piece, "and you are free to move anywhere on the board. You're valuable, but only several steps ahead," she explained, pointedly holding Pansy's eye. "You must let the pawns move first, but their moves aren't without strategy."

Pansy frowned. "Meaning what?"

Daphne paused, the words dancing on her tongue before she spoke.

"Take Poliakoff's interest in you, for example," she prompted. "You are a married woman," she delivered unambiguously, "so what would he have to gain?"

"Nothing," Pansy suggested flatly. "Favor, perhaps, but I'm not equipped to give any. If anything, he'd be better off currying Hermione's favor - as Ambassador Karkaroff has done," she added bitterly, but Daphne shook her head, cutting her off.

"Yes,  _for now_ , perhaps - but as I said, move forward in the game," Daphne advised, shifting a few pawns on the chessboard. "What if the queen were free to move of her own accord?"

Pansy, astonished, gaped at her.

"Choose Poliakoff for a husband, you mean?" Pansy asked. "That's not possible, Daphne, as you well know. What is it you've heard?" she pressed, urgent. "You know I love your metaphors, but clearly there's something going on in that pretty little head of yours, Lady Nott."

Daphne's lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"They say that Grimmauld and the Weasley estates have both received payments lately," she opened evasively, rising to her feet. "Given what Poliakoff's told you about Queen Olympe, I believe that she's funding Harry and his friends in order to aid their opposition to the King. There are rumors," Daphne added, dropping her voice, "that Olympe means to remove Tom and support you."

"That's impossible," Pansy gasped, alarmed. "That's regicide, and Olympe's merely a regent - "

"Oh, I'm sure she believes the King is planning to do the same to her," Daphne qualified flatly. "And frankly, I would be greatly surprised if he does not. He married you for a reason," she added, and Pansy remembered her father's warning again:  _there are only two reasons men do anything, and this, I assure you, is not love._  "The King may not have mobilized yet, but I'm certain he will encroach on Queen Olympe's borders as soon as the circumstances suit him - and likely the Durmstrang nobles see the conflict as a chance to regain their own lands from under Beauxbaton's control."

"But what does that have to do with me?" Pansy pressed, fearful of the answer, and Daphne grimaced.

"If the Duke of Grimmauld defeats the King while the King has no heir, you will be regent until another King is crowned," Daphne reminded her. "Succession rules are hazy without direct descendents and there would almost certainly be war, but whoever has your favor would be certain to profit from his loss. I'm sure Poliakoff sees this," she added. "And if Karkaroff does not, it is likely because he believes that our King will be the victor over his Queen, and he's already abandoned her cause."

"But if that were so - if, in the meantime, I were suspected of plotting against Tom," Pansy realized, panicked, "I would be killed. Even without proof," she exhaled sharply. "Just on  _suspicion_  of treason - you  _know_  this - "

"Yes, I know this," Daphne agreed, her face suddenly contorting with pain. "Sorry," she murmured hazily, reaching behind her for the chair. "Just - need to sit a moment - "

Instantly, Pansy cast aside her worries, leaping to ease Daphne into the chair.

"I shouldn't burden you with stress," Pansy commented worriedly, and Daphne made a face, dismissing her concern.

"It's nothing," she assured her, smiling weakly. "I'm simply nauseated on occasion. But in any case," Daphne continued, "for now, you must play your piece as though any number of opponents could emerge the victor. Entertain Poliakoff's admiration, but keep yourself free of suspicion. Never display disloyalty to the King, but let your attention be swayed when it suits you. In short - women's work," Daphne said, shaking her head. "Seduction at all sides."

"What if Tom takes another approach?" Pansy asked, her breath quickening as Daphne's hand settled protectively over her belly. "What if he tries for an heir?"

Daphne shook her head, dubious. "The whole court knows he hasn't come to your bed in months," she said stiffly, her gaze flicking to where she and Pansy had hidden the contraceptive vial she'd procured. "If he does, then we'll all know his intent."

"Hermione would never allow it," Pansy muttered, hating that she was even considering the other woman's opinion worthy of merit. "If I were to bear Tom a son, her role at court would never be more than a highly favored courtesan. And by now it's far too late for her to achieve any other noble marriage, what with her reputation destroyed - "

"You have more mobility than Hermione," Daphne confirmed, nodding in agreement. " _You_  presently sit on the throne of Diagon, and should anything happen to the King, you will far outweigh Hermione."

It was a bolstering thought, Pansy knew, but only momentarily.

"Surely Tom knows this as well, though," Pansy realized, "doesn't he? Which means that if he ultimately wins over Olympe - and if he sees a way to be rid of me - "

She trailed off, grimacing, and Daphne winced.

"You might not be killed," Daphne permitted uncomfortably, "but you will certainly be put aside, and likely sent from court. And if the King wants legal heirs," she conceded, "but he wants them with Hermione - "

" _Then_  I'll be killed," Pansy said flatly, eyeing the chess board. She stared for a moment, picking up the queen and weighing the carved ivory in her hand. "Am I to wage a war against my husband, then?"

It seemed unfathomable, and unfathomably dangerous. She toyed with the object, contemplating its fragility as she held it loosely in her fingers.

Daphne reached out, covering Pansy's hand with hers.

"Quietly," she warned. "As quietly as you possibly can."

* * *

_Hermione's prominence at court is more undeniable than ever now that she is such a fixture at Tom's side. She is no longer asked to leave for meetings, and the nobles expect that in her presence, their King will grant her permission to speak before any of them are consulted. To whisper about her is no longer fashionable, and though reception still isn't warm, it is filled with something she thinks is a strange kind of fear._

_Later, she realizes it isn't actually fear, but reverence of a particular variety; a veneration of something that others cannot understand._

_It isn't fear, but knowledge; the knowledge, Hermione realizes, that she may yet rise above them all._

**oOo**

"Thank goodness that's over," Hermione sighed, slipping into Tom's chambers with him and resting her head back against the wall, exhausted. "I have no idea why you find it so necessary to entertain such an egregiously conniving man," she grumbled, "considering that he lacks any talent to merit the scope of his ambition."

"Which conniving man do you mean this time?" Tom asked, laughing, and Hermione shook her head, biting back a laugh of her own.

"I mean Karkaroff, as you well know," she said, kicking her shoes off and watching Tom remove the royal insignia at his chest, carefully undressing. "He's a bully, you know. And a bore."

"Well, you always put him in his place so beautifully," Tom replied, glancing up at her as he tore his shift over his head, letting it fall to the floor. "Though you do everything beautifully," he murmured appreciatively, his lips accommodating a clever, unbearably alluring smile.

"Don't flatter me right now," Hermione warned, brandishing a shoe at him. "We're talking."

Tom sighed, stepping towards her.

"Yes, I know, you dislike Karkaroff," he assured her, "as do I. But I require the strength of his ancestral lands, Hermione. The Durmstrang armies, especially," he mused, beginning to mutter to himself. "Queen Olympe's control over them is tenuous at best, and surely they would prefer to serve a King - "

"Oh, so this is about a female monarch, is it?" Hermione prompted, and Tom woke from his reverie to shake his head in disapproval, taking her in his arms.

"Not every monarch deserves their crown," Tom told her. "Not every woman is you, Hermione. You can't simply sympathize with Olympe's cause on the sole basis that you and she share anatomy."

"No," Hermione protested. "But can  _you_  not manage to produce a better argument?"

Tom chuckled, conceding.

"Olympe trusts Karkaroff," he reminded her, pausing to stroke her cheek. "Is that not indication enough of her weaknesses as Queen? And she declined an invitation to see me at court, which was as unwise as it was insulting," Tom added, his mouth contorting in a scowl. "Perhaps I might have done things differently if I'd thought her reliable as an ally. As it is, though - " he trailed off, shrugging. "If her own men turn against her, I'm hardly the one to blame."

"Well, fine," Hermione permitted, letting Tom drop kisses on her neck as he reached behind her, pulling at the ties of her gown. "That's a better reason, I suppose."

"You know," Tom ventured, slipping the silk from her shoulder and pressing a kiss there in its place, "I've heard Harry's received some unusually generous funding." His lips brushed up the side of her neck, ending at her jaw. "Can you keep an eye on him?"

"Funding?" Hermione echoed, frowning. "How could you possibly know that?"

Tom shrugged. "My spies tell me that someone with money is backing Harry," he said. "Possibly the Weasleys as well, but that's no surprise. Whoever it is, I've already called in all the mercenary armies that are not currently on campaign," he added, briefly distracted from his seduction of her. "So if Harry's mobilizing to attack, he'll have to use his own subpar troops, or pay far more than he could possibly possess to outbid me."

"Perhaps he's mobilizing to defend," Hermione suggested, and Tom leaned back, scoffing.

"I wouldn't attack his birthright," Tom told her. "I'm not an idiot. However," he continued, tugging at her gown until she'd stepped out of it, leaving him to take her in his arms, "it's charming you're still so optimistic. I suspect the actual source might be Olympe," he suggested with displeasure, "but if so, she's using a go-between.  _Which_ ," he muttered against her skin, "is a person I would very much like to cause pain."

Hermione paused, considering the situation.

"Have you looked into the finances of everyone at court?" she asked innocently, and Tom bristled, releasing her slowly. "I mean, surely only a few people could afford it, couldn't they?"

"Hermione," Tom murmured warningly. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," Hermione suggested, treading carefully, "you  _do_  always say that the Malfoys have the most valuable lands in Diagon,  _and_  their coffers are more than full - "

At that, Tom stepped away, exasperated.

"You really think Draco would go behind his father's back to pay off  _Harry_ , a man he hates," Tom said impatiently, "in order to - what, exactly? Oppose me?"

"I'm just saying," Hermione reminded him, "that it seemed to me he was leveraging a threat against you. And if he were intent to make good on it, then I would imagine - "

"Your imagination is laudable, Hermione, but in this case, I'd wager it unreliable," Tom cut in stiffly. "Draco is a Loyalist. He would never stand against his father, and he certainly wouldn't stand against  _me_  - "

"Wouldn't it be wise, though, to see if any large transactions have taken place within your court? Or," she suggested listlessly, waving a hand, "simply discard Malfoy altogether - "

"Ah, but if not for your illogical opposition to him, how on earth would I recall you're not flawless?" Tom asked, leaning against the bedpost. "It's refreshing to know you still have your moments of wild speculation."

"Tom," Hermione sighed, and Tom, recovered from his initial irritation, simply laughed, turning her around and drawing her hair carefully over her shoulder.

"Let me tell you your future, Hermione Granger," he suggested instead, his voice low in her ear. "When I've put down this little mutiny Harry has in mind and taken Beauxbatons for myself, I will make you my Queen, and I will spend my life in worship at your feet. And when you sit on my throne," he exhaled, sending a thrill up her spine, "and when you wear my crown, no man - not even Draco Malfoy - will spare you a moment of discomfort. You will own them all with a wave of your hand and dismiss them just as easily, and you and I will have the world in our possession. Why simply a Queen, even, and not an Empress?" he prompted, his hand coming to curl around the base of her throat. "Why even an Empress when you can be a  _goddess_ , and command heaven and earth?"

"Do you ever wonder if you aim too high?" Hermione asked, and in response Tom only tightened his arms around her, one hand dropping to touch her until she couldn't prevent a moan, the sound slipping helplessly from her lips.

"What is there to fear, Hermione?" he countered. "We are not men and women like anyone else on earth. Say it is god-given," he suggested. "Then what foolish god would mark us as his equals, were we not meant to rise? Even if you were to argue that our powers were gifted by chance," he continued, "there is even  _less_  a law that says we shouldn't rule. Aren't we the greater of our species?" he prompted. "Aren't we the ones who are the wiser, better, more powerful?"

"Still," Hermione protested, though she felt herself lose her certainty. "Is morality no longer a question?"

"Isn't there morality in order, in discipline?" Tom asked. "Isn't there morality in ruling justly, and not leaving the throne to squabbles of lesser-minded panderers? Men will always crave power," he reminded her. "They'll always fight for it, misuse it -  _abuse_  it. And if that is human nature," he prompted, "then why should you and I not be the ones to take control?"

Hermione found herself unable to answer, lost to his touch and the impossible lure of his words.

"Keep an eye on Harry," Tom murmured to her late in the night when they were both spent and exhausted, curled around each other in bed. She nodded her agreement, though she wondered how she would proceed.

 _Rabastan_ , she thought, and from afar, she felt his consciousness awaken.  _I need you to keep an eye on someone._

She paused, considering it. She could always watch Harry herself; he was far too visible to skulk around at court, and it wasn't as if she didn't already know where he spent his nights.

No, not Harry. There was someone else at court she didn't trust.

 _I need you to watch Draco Malfoy_ , she instructed Rabastan, and then she closed her eyes, gradually falling asleep in Tom's arms.

* * *

_In Tom's absence, Poliakoff is bolder about pursuing Pansy's favor. He requests a dance from her, and despite her confusion and the many scrutinizing eyes of the court, it would be far too rude to refuse; so Pansy accepts, careful to appear neutral even as the Durmstrang lord murmurs pearls of flattery in her ear._

_When Pansy looks up she can see that Harry's lips are curled into an indulgent smile, applauding her from afar. She feels his presence like a sickness, and Poliakoff's hand where Harry's has so often been is a strange and unwelcome thing._

**oOo**

"You encourage Poliakoff's behavior," Pansy accused Harry in her chambers, shaking her head. "Why?"

"I control neither your behavior nor his," Harry reminded her, answering without hesitation. "Am I wrong to be pleased when others admire you?" he pressed, stepping forward to settle his hands lightly on her hips. "After all, I possess no foolish misconceptions that I might have any limiting claim to you, my Queen."

"Do you not wish to have any, either?" she managed hesitantly, chewing her lip, and Harry lifted her chin, meeting her eye.

"You told me not to indulge in fantasy," he reminded her, and she wanted to curse him for the way he looked at her, the way he held her, the way he lessened her to breathlessness in his grasp. "Didn't you?"

"You want a future," she replied, swallowing hard. "But there cannot be a future here."

"Not as things are," he agreed. "But why should I believe things would never change?"

"And if things were to change, you would want me to be courted by Alexander Poliakoff?" Pansy prompted skeptically. "I'm not sure I see much devotion in that, Harry."

"Oh, but don't you?" Harry asked, his grip tightening. "You've promised me nothing, Pansy, and so I hold you to nothing. Why should I chase him  _away_  from you," he pressed, "when I know what good he could be for you? What he represents for you?"

"And what is that, then?" Pansy prompted. "What does Poliakoff bring?"

"The Durmstrang lands," Harry answered firmly. "Their armies are among the best in the world and they currently serve the will of Beauxbatons, but Poliakoff could command them in her stead."

"No, Karkaroff would," Pansy corrected. "He outranks both Poliakoff and Krum."

"Only until Tom falls," Harry corrected, sending a shiver up her spine with his certainty in the statement. "Once Tom loses, Karkaroff stands alone - and sycophant that he is, he will be quick to bend. That," Harry qualified bitterly, "or die a traitor at the hands of his own countrymen - "

"You wager too much on Tom's death," Pansy warned, shaking her head. "You wager your life on it," she murmured, "and, perhaps, mine." She glanced again at the chessboard on the table, unable to prevent another shudder at the reminder. Harry caught her lingering glance, releasing her to step towards the board.

"The game is null if the King falls," he said, walking over to pick up the king's piece and knocking it over, a nudge of his finger sending it crashing to the ground. "The game is  _over_ , Pansy, and the board wiped clean once the King falls. Gone are the knights," he added, knocking them to the ground after, "and the bishops and the rooks, and - "

Pansy reached out, stopping him as he picked up the queen's piece in his hand.

"If the king falls," she asked, taking the piece from him, "then what of the queen?"

Harry turned, watching her. "What does the queen  _want_ , Your Majesty?" he murmured, and she paused, closing her fingers around the ivory again.

"You know I can't say," she told him, shaking her head. "I shouldn't."

"No, you shouldn't," he agreed, "but perhaps I could read your mind." He leaned forward, pressing his lips lightly to her temple. "Shall we give that a try?"

She sighed. "What on earth are you talking about?"

He smiled, his lips brushing her cheek this time.

"Don't say a word," he said quietly, brushing his finger across her lips. "Say nothing, remember? You'll have to find other ways to answer my questions."

She opened her mouth and he shook his head, warning her.

"Careful, Majesty," he cautioned, his lips quirking up in his roguish smile. "Your life is at stake."

Pansy sighed, resigning herself to his games.

"Should the Queen find herself free," Harry suggested, stroking a line across her jaw, "would she consider wedding another? If the answer is yes," he said, tapping his lips, "then a kiss. If the answer is no - " he shrugged, grinning. "A less acquiescent kiss."

Pansy rolled her eyes and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his.

"Well," he murmured into her mouth, "I simply can't tell. Is this a yes or a no?"

She sighed again, wrapping her arms around his neck, and drew him closer, one hand smoothing his unruly hair as she deepened the kiss, sliding her tongue across his lip first before biting down pointedly, prompting him to laugh.

"Say the Queen were to wed again, then," he suggested, his jewel-toned eyes flashing as he looked at her. "Would she want a Durmstrang lord? Now, think carefully," he warned, holding up a finger for pause. "Because if the Queen were to choose such a lord, she would have an army at her disposal. A King to rule beside her who would have lands and wealth with which to protect their line. So, should she want such a lord," he said, stepping back, "she can kiss me again here, right over the heart she owns," he said, tapping his chest. "But if, perhaps, she wants something else - "

Pansy arched a brow, and Harry grinned.

"Perhaps she might choose where she kisses me," he said, pretending at nonchalance, and Pansy shook her head, stepping towards him to take the hem of his shirt in her hands and pulling it up, slipping it over his head.

She paused, considering. He made an excellent point about Poliakoff; but still, the game was only a fantasy, and there was only one future she clung to, if only in her heart. She slid her hands down his torso and then, stepping back to slip out of her shift, she made her way to her knees, listening to him inhale sharply.

"Majesty," he said, breathless. "I warn you, in this life, you should kneel before no man."

She glanced up, holding her finger to her lips, and loosened the ties at his trousers, sliding them over the curve of his backside and peeling them carefully down his legs.

"Wait," he rasped, and she stopped, her hand tracing the inside of his thigh. "This is highly unorthodox," he told her, feigning sternness. "I should at least ask another question."

She shrugged, inviting him.

"If the Queen were to follow her heart," Harry suggested. "If her heart were to lead her to a knave," he clarified, clearing his throat and reaching down, caressing her cheek. "If the Queen's heart were to foolishly choose a man beneath her in every possible way, and who is a fool, and a dastardly rogue - and admittedly, deviantly handsome, but still - "

She glared at him, and he smiled.

"Should the Queen wish to have  _me_ ," he whispered to her, "then perhaps she might continue. Should she wish to discard me, however," he said hoarsely, "or should she believe that we have no chance of a future, she should instead send me away, as I don't think I could bear it."

Harry dropped to his knees before her, taking her face in both hands.

"If the Queen does not love me as I love her," he said, "and if she does not see a life with me as I see one with her, she should spare us both and send me home." He paused a moment, his forehead pressed against hers, and Pansy let out a breath, turning her head to press a kiss to his palm.

"But," she prompted, and Harry seemed to awaken, smiling at her again.

"But," he agreed, nodding, "if she wants me, she should do with me as she likes."

"Are you at your Queen's mercy, then?" Pansy asked him, abandoning her temporary vow of silence.

Harry swallowed hard and Pansy nudged him back, the rogue relinquishing control as the Queen pressed him down on the floor, brushing her lips against his hip and settling herself between his knees.

"Completely," he confessed, and then he exhaled sharply, letting her steal his breath.

* * *

_Having grown wary of Karkaroff and feeling she is more useful elsewhere, Hermione remains in the Great Hall, and she can see that the room is more careful for her attention. The guests know that Hermione's eyes are Tom's eyes, and that they are keen and sharp and unyielding, and on that evening, merriment is stiff and forced. Late into the night, Hermione and Pansy sit beside Tom's vacant throne as two sides of a pretty, shiny coin._

_But when the hand is dealt and the cards are revealed, who is holding aces? Both women are certain, and yet neither can really be sure._

**oOo**

"I'm surprised to see you here," Pansy commented, sipping from her goblet and glancing askance at Hermione. "Tell me, what is it that you and the King have to discuss every night with the Beauxbatons Ambassador? Not a garden party, I hope," she commented, smirking. "I'd have to polish my spring tiara."

"Oh, don't let my presence keep you from your courtly games," Hermione assured her, drumming her fingers against the table. "I know how you enjoy your vapid entertainment, Your Majesty."

Pansy chuckled, shaking her head as she set her wine down.

"Well, from where I sit - which is on the  _throne of Diagon_ ," Pansy clarified haughtily, leaning towards Hermione, "I'd say the view is rather the same as it always is. With or without your presence," she added, casting a vacant glance over the Great Hall. "Astoundingly, we persist."

"Yes," Hermione agreed sweetly, nodding. "Court is full of snakes, much as it always is. Be careful of what's underfoot, Majesty," she warned, catching the motion of Rabastan and Draco conversing with their heads bent. "You know how your serpents love to strike without warning."

Pansy raised her glass again, the sound of a dry laugh escaping into the bell of the goblet.

"Well, some people are born with power in their blood," Pansy permitted lazily, replacing the glass on the table, "venomous or otherwise. Others are forced to make do with nothing," she mused, her gaze flicking to Hermione's, "so I wonder which creature is to be pitied?"

Hermione, immune to the now much-tired slight against her birth, let her gaze wander in time to see Draco nod, inclining his head conspiratorially, just as Rabastan murmured something in response.

"Pity any creature at my mercy," Hermione advised under her breath. Pansy either didn't hear or, more likely, pretended not to have heard, her gaze slipping helplessly towards Harry's from afar.

After a few moments, Hermione watched Draco rise to his feet, exiting the hall with a quick glance over his shoulder. She felt a thrill up her spine that propelled her upright, certain she'd caught Draco in the act of something nefarious - or, at least, in the throes of something with enough legitimate doubt to bolster her suspicions. She instructed Rabastan to slip out when he could, and glanced over at the Queen.

"Excuse my departure Your Majesty," Hermione offered, gesturing to the corridor. "Just have to take care of something."

Pansy's head turned slowly, her lips pursed.

"Don't die," she remarked insincerely, turning her attention back to the court, and Hermione slipped away, meeting Rabastan outside the Great Hall.

"Well?" she said hurriedly, pulling him aside. "What did he say?"

"The young Malfoy confessed to a crisis of confidence," Rabastan supplied mechanically. "It seems he has agreed to a task he finds abhorrent but necessary, and he mentioned that he has indeed met with the Duke of Grimmauld recently. The Malfoy lords command significant armies, and - "

"I knew it," Hermione hissed, clenching a fist. "Did he say exactly what he promised Harry?"

"No," Rabastan replied, blinking. "But he did hint that his allegiances may have been swayed somewhat recently, and - "

" _Perfect_ ," Hermione cut in, exhaling with satisfaction, and Rabastan blinked, awaiting further instruction. "Go back to dinner," she said impatiently, feeling her knuckles spark. "I'll talk to the King. Be certain to act normal," she added, and Rabastan offered her a bow, nodding, before heading back into the Great Hall.

Hermione spun quickly, heading for the King's privy council chambers with her blood rushing furiously in her veins, a mix of rage and ruination and triumph. This would not stand with Tom; as far as Hermione was concerned, Draco had signed his death warrant, and she would be content - if not  _delighted -_ to stand by and watch him fall. She suspected that perhaps some of the other Durmstrang delegation - Poliakoff, who seemed to have some sway with the other nobles, or possibly Krum - might still have something to do with it, but their betrayal of Karkaroff would be nothing in light of Draco Malfoy's pivot from the Loyalist agenda.

She approached the entrance to the chamber, flashing the guards a warning glance; they, knowing better than to stop her, said nothing as she reached for the doors. Before she could open them, however, they flew open of their own accord, revealing Tom in the frame.

"Your Majesty," she said quickly, dropping to a low curtsy, and he glanced down at her, brow furrowed.

"Hermione," he murmured, looking distracted. "You need something?"

"I needed to speak with you," she confirmed, her gaze momentarily caught on something behind him. From inside the privy chamber, she noticed a flash of pale blond, the curl of an arrogant smirk; Draco Malfoy was watching her, daring her to move. "Privately," she qualified, glancing up at Tom. "If you have a moment."

Tom waved a hand, gesturing her into an alcove. "What is it?" he asked, though his attention remained elsewhere.

"Tom," she said quietly. "I really think you need to reconsider Draco Malf-"

He groaned, rubbing wearily at his eyes.

"I've already checked his finances, as you so obtrusively requested," he informed her, his voice flat and clipped. "There's been no indication of any transferred funds, either incoming or outgoing."

Hermione blinked, surprised. "But his army - "

"Draco has already committed  _his father's_  army to my cause," Tom interrupted, staring at her. "Have you gained anything from watching Harry?" he pressed, gesturing towards the Hall. "Does he consort with Poliakoff or Krum, or any of the Durmstrang delegation?"

Hermione opened her mouth, caught off guard, and closed it. "He - " she frowned, trying to remember. "Yes, I believe I've seen them interact, but - "

Tom's mouth tightened.

"Harry has friends at this court," he said, his voice low and deadly. "He has been made to feel he is invisible, or else above scrutiny; as if his actions do not have consequences. He is  _comfortable_ ," Tom spat, and Hermione, alarmed by the look on his face, reached out, steadying him.

"Tom," she murmured, trying to soothe him. His skin burned beneath her touch, molten-hot, and when he glanced at her, she had to blink it away again; the raging sky, the crimson flame,  _passion and blood and bone -_

"The Duke of Grimmauld has friends at this court," Tom repeated, wrenching free from her touch, "and I will wipe them out, one by one, until he stands alone. I will destroy him," he finished, his eyes narrowing to slits, "and everything he loves."

Hermione, who had been holding her breath, exhaled sharply, suffering a chill; she reached for Tom's hand but he shook his head, turning conclusively over his shoulder.

"Mulciber," he called, striding back into the privy chamber, and the other man bowed, waiting. "Go ahead as instructed. Malfoy," he added, glancing at Draco. "You as well."

Draco, however, inclined his head.

"If Your Majesty is not opposed," he ventured, his gaze flicking to Hermione as she hovered in the doorway, "I'd like to remain at court for this particular errand. I believe Your Majesty is requiring of sources he can  _trust_ ," he emphasized pointedly, "now more than ever."

His lips quirked up as he spoke, unsuccessfully attempting to hide an exultant smile, and Hermione held her breath.

"Fine," Tom permitted listlessly, waving a hand. "Mulciber, take Severus and go." He turned, catching Hermione's form at his side, and reached out, stroking her cheek. "Are you ready to fight a war by my side, my lioness?" he murmured to her, his touch like a flame against her lips.

She swallowed hard, nodding.

"Good," Tom said firmly, and strode towards the Great Hall, leaving her in his wake.

Hermione, for her part, waited for the room to empty, nodding to each noble as they passed her. They processed slowly, one by one, until only Draco remained in the chamber, his eyes on her as he leaned back against the table.

She glanced over her shoulder, stepping into the room, and slowly, deliberately closed the doors behind her.

"What kind of game are you playing, Malfoy?" she eventually accused, keeping her back to him. She heard him give a full, throaty laugh and she tightened her hand to a fist, contemplating the feel of his heart against her palm and the particular sensation of crushing it.

"You know, I have to thank you, actually," Draco replied. "I thought you might be a more skilled opponent, but I see now that I misjudged you. My fault, I suppose," he taunted. "Perhaps I didn't make it clear that I am not at your mercy, Granger." He stepped closer, his tone turning darker. "Nor will I ever be."

Hermione spun to face him, incensed. "You told Lestrange you were mobilizing against the King," she snapped, and his grey eyes danced with haughty amusement. "You were willing to chance being arrested for treason just to do -  _what_ , exactly?" she demanded. "Just to toy with me?"

Draco's expression soured, his eyes narrowing. "Your hold over Rabastan Lestrange is unnatural," he told her. "I chanced nothing. If he were truly valuable to the King, he would have been in this room, but he is  _not_ ," he spat, throwing out a hand in reference. "Rabastan Lestrange is loyal to  _you_ , and therefore leading him astray was never any gamble - "

"But why?" Hermione pressed, furiously striding towards him. "What do you gain by misleading me?"

Draco's brow arched, as if he were surprised she didn't already know.

"The King trusts your counsel," he supplied ambiguously, shrugging. "But however much he admires you -  _desires_  you - you are still a woman, and a commoner at that, and this court will never stand behind you in his absence. If your advice becomes unsound - "

"So you gambled  _my_  life, then," Hermione realized, her eyes widening. "You led me astray hoping the King would come to lose interest in me? Is that it?"

Draco shrugged again, frustratingly coy.

"Oh, I play a long game,  _Lady_  Hermione," he drawled, taking another step. "I told you I would wait to see you fall, and I will. The King has no reason to doubt my loyalty," he added, staring combatively down at her, "but yours, on the other hand _-_ "

"You cannot turn him against me," Hermione warned. "The King is in love with me."

"The King is in love with  _power_ ," Draco corrected her, "and you know it. I can help bring him Harry's head," he added with a laugh, "and if you're unable to do the same - "

He trailed off, tellingly; not that he needed to finish the sentence. His point was sound, and more than slightly dangerous. Hermione felt her own hands shaking at the threat, her voice wrenched painfully from her throat.

"You've shown your hand now," she snarled, glaring up at him. "You can't possibly think you can continue playing this game without my noticing your motives now that you've made your goal so unrepentantly clear."

"Oh, but can't I?" Draco postured, tilting his head. He paused, his tongue slipping between his lips, and then he leaned towards her, speaking low in her ear. "What can you  _possibly_  do to me, Hermione Granger?" he murmured to her, laughing breathlessly. "I know you want me gone - want me  _dead_  - but the King will never acquiesce, will he? Not now," he mused, as Hermione felt her veins chill with fury. "And certainly not once I've helped him win a foothold in his empire."

Hermione leaned back, glaring at him. "You think you're untouchable," she said through gritted teeth, "but you're not, Malfoy - "

"Empty threats," Draco cut in, shrugging. "How low - even for you, Granger."

She felt something burst from her lungs, spreading to the tips of her fingers.

She felt rage, felt carnage;  _dissolve it to ash,_ she heard Tom say,  _bend it to your will_  -

 _Tell his veins to collapse,_  Tom whispered in her mind, low and sharp and taunting.  _Tell his lungs to puncture, his intestines to fail -_

"Empty?" she echoed bitterly, and reached forward without hesitation, pressing her palm to Draco's chest.

_Tell his heart to stop beating -_

He gasped, falling to his knees, and she wrenched her hand back, the core of him held tight between her fingers, glowing like ice in her palm.

"You're a fool, Draco Malfoy," she whispered, holding his life in her hands.


	14. Paint Me as a Villain

**Chapter 14: Paint Me as a Villain**

Tom's appearance in the Great Hall was met with an instant hush that blanketed the room, reducing them all to silence in the wake of his elongated stride. Pansy, startled by his unexpected arrival, shifted abruptly from stifled apprehension to heart-pounding terror as Tom paused beside Harry, moistening his lips.

"Ah, Lord Henry," Tom said, forcing something that was only a smile in that the motion bore his teeth. "Poliakoff," he acknowledged, nodding to the men at Harry's table, "Krum. Isn't it a pleasure, being among so many faithful compatriots?" he asked, gesturing to the goblets in their hands and leaning into the words. "Perhaps we should have a toast. Where is my Queen?"

He looked up, meeting Pansy's eye across the hall, and she half-froze, panicked, before her well-trained legs, noble of birth and peerless in stature, erupted her forth from her throne, shakily making their way towards him. She felt the sound of her uneven breath and the static pattern of her shoes ricocheting through the room as she reached him, handing him his goblet, and he gave her long, studious look.

"My Queen," he ventured, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer, "do you have any thoughts on how best to delight our guests?"

She avoided Harry's eye, sensing him as he watched her; she felt the heat of his gaze sear ruthlessly into her waist, his unguarded stare set darkly where Tom's hands touched her.

"Perhaps to their good health," Pansy suggested, clearing her throat. "An expression of gratitude, of course, for their - " she trailed off, swallowing hard. "Friendship."

"Ah, yes,  _friendship_ ," Tom agreed, glancing down at the Durmstrang dignitaries. "Such as your Queen Olympe bestowed upon me, don't you think?"

At the entry to the Hall, a few of Tom's nobles had filtered in, and Pansy caught the motion of Karkaroff smiling mockingly from afar as Poliakoff and Krum averted their gazes.

"You know, my Loyalists can attest that I take very good care of my friends," Tom continued lightly, his fingers burning through the fabric of Pansy's gown. " _Quite_  good care, actually. So yes, as my Queen has said, to friendship," he offered, raising his glass. "To the many fruitful friendships you have made here," Tom announced, and the men at the table tentatively followed, picking up their goblets and raising them unsteadily in the air.

"May they be aptly rewarding," Tom murmured, and Pansy's stomach lurched, burdened by the way her husband's eyes drifted worryingly to Harry's. Rather than consent to drink, though, Tom paused, glancing down at Pansy. "Oh, but one more thing," he ventured abruptly, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. "I'm afraid I'd be quite impolite if I didn't mention your families. I must also thank them for enduring in your absence, that I may profit from your presence here at court. Sisters, correct?" he asked, turning to Krum. "And an engagement, I believe. And you, Poliakoff," he added, turning to him. "Brothers? Cousins? Even a bastard son, I hear," Tom murmured. "A pity to leave a little one behind, and yet - "

He trailed off, and Pansy watched both men's faces drain of color.

"But nobody is ever too far, are they?" Tom continued. "Our loved ones are never quite . . . out of reach," he said, a quiet edge of meanness reaching his voice as he pulled Pansy closer, yanking her firmly against his side. "Are they, sweetheart?" he asked her, his blue eyes settling on hers.

Her chest constricted, and she barely managed a nod.

She recalled that Hermione had slipped out before Tom's reappearance; did she know?

Did Tom know?

Pansy's breath tore violently from her lungs as Tom turned back to Harry, once again lifting his goblet in the air.

"How about this, then? To good fortune for our friends, and righteous justice for our enemies," Tom called heartily, his gaze dropping to Harry's again. "And above all, to the wisdom to know the difference."

He tilted his glass against his lips, taking a sip, and the other men followed; all but Harry, that is, whose brow furrowed with displeasure as he pointedly slammed his goblet against the table, making a show of his disobedience.

"Don't," Pansy let out on a muted breath, but Harry rose to his feet, facing Tom.

"Your Majesty," he said through gritted teeth, "you sound as though you have a message to convey. Perhaps it would be better if you spoke it - or is it a Gaunt tradition to hide behind deceit?"

Tom bristled momentarily, but returned with a cutting smile.

"How clever to remind the court who is a Gaunt, and who is a Peverell," Tom said. "Perhaps you'd like to remind yourself which family's emblem drapes above your head," he ventured coldly, gesturing to the snake on the banner above, "and at whose mercy you remain at court, Your Grace."

"Mercy?" Harry echoed furiously, and Pansy felt Tom's arm tighten around her, his touch a warning that tore into her heart. "You call this mercy? This is imprisonment in its most cowardly form," Harry snarled. "You fear me enough to keep me here, to  _trap_  me here, and were I n- "

"That's enough," Pansy inserted roughly, conscious of the eyes that had swiveled from every corner of the room. At the sound of her voice, Harry's tongue stilled, his green eyes wide as he blinked fury back from his gaze. "Your Grace, you forget yourself," she warned flatly, drawing her spine aloft and yet hating every gap that manifested between her vertebrae. "You disavow my husband's favor, and such behavior cannot be tolerated here at court."

Harry stared at her, betrayed, and faltered.

"Your Majesty," he ventured, bowing his head. "Perhaps I got carried away - "

"Then I would advise you to be a bigger man than your tempers," Pansy cut in, "and leave such inadvisable volatility to myself and my ladies."

It was too far; the statement too dry, too familiar. Harry stared at her, and Tom, she noted with a shudder of fear - with a whisper of warning, striking far too late - eyed her just as closely, his gaze narrowing as it traveled between her face and Harry's to land, ominously, on the wavering distance between them.

"Interesting," Tom murmured under his breath, and Pansy instantly turned to face him, re-setting her mask and coquettishly permitting a retreat, bowing her head.

"Begging Your Majesty's pardon," she offered, "but I'm afraid it pains me too greatly to fail to come to my King's defense, and I must ask your forgiveness rather than suffer any passivity on your behalf."

"Forgiveness granted," Tom said, amused, and Harry's expression soured.

"And I apologize also, Your Majesty," Harry ground out, clearing his throat. "I'm afraid I've had too much to drink," he offered in clearly false explanation, "and perhaps we're all tired out from the unequaled merriment of your court."

Pansy took a breath; trapped it.

For a moment, Tom stared between them, contemplating something.

"My, my, how well behaved we all are," he commented eventually, and Pansy's heart plummeted, her lungs overfilling, her chest swelling, and -

"Pettigrew," Tom called over his shoulder, turning to his aide as the bubble of fear in Pansy's ribs paused just short of bursting. "Perhaps we should all retire for the evening, given how exhausting the day has been. Our friends will surely have a number of concerns for us in the morning," he added, "and so deserve a rest, I think."

"Yes, of course," Pettigrew returned, and immediately, people around the room began to shift, returning to their dinner plates and pretending not to have seen the small instance of war that had waged in the hall. "And," Pettigrew added, dropping his voice as he approached Tom's side, "shall I also fetch - "

"Yes, when you see Lady Hermione, send her to my chambers," Tom muttered to him, his brow creased in thought. "And - "

He turned, glancing at Pansy.

"You too, I think," he told her, and behind him, she saw Harry's fists clench.

Rather than ask questions, though, Pansy forced a curtsy.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said, dropping to the ground, and when she looked up, Tom was gone, and in his place only the pained gaze of the rogue left standing.

* * *

Hermione held the glow of Draco Malfoy's life in her hands, eyeing it closely. She'd asked Tom what she possessed of Rabastan after she'd stolen it, and he'd replied simply that it had been his consciousness. This, she presumed was similar. She eyed it with fascination; Draco's being, or whatever it was, looked no different than Rabastan's, but it pulsed with a newness she hadn't yet encountered.

"You tried to trick me," she commented again, glancing down at Draco where he struggled to remain on his knees. She paused, peering down at him. "Why?"

He glared up at her, struggling to speak, and she brought the white glow of him to her lips.

"Tell me," she whispered to it, and she felt him shudder, cursed with obedience.

"I no longer trusted Rabastan," he said. "I suspected your involvement, but I never thought - " he groaned slightly, shaking his head. "I thought your influence was unnatural, but not  _unholy_."

"Oh, don't pretend at devotion," Hermione told him impatiently, and again he shuddered, held captive by her restraints. "You fed him false information to lead me on a track of what, exactly? You risked your life  _for what_?" she demanded. "Tell me the truth," she added sharply, lest he give her an answer as unsatisfactory as the ones before.

His tongue did her bidding, but he smiled recklessly first.

"That you would be humbled," he replied, and she tightened her grip on him, prompting him to drop to his hands, head bent before her.

"Humbled," she echoed angrily, shaking her head. "How ironic that you would believe yourself capable of invoking anything of the sort. Perhaps you are the one who should be humbled," she mused, tightening her grip again, diminishing him to anguish. "How's this, for a start?"

He coughed out something incoherent, choking on a strangled breath.

She sighed, finding it all painfully mundane.

"Do you know how easy it would be for me to kill you?" she ventured musically, eyeing the glow in her hand. "Effortless. Even less just to  _control_  you," she added, "though you should know, I think, that my hold over your father is natural. Pity you couldn't be as useful as he is," she added, and Draco glared up at her, defiant.

"You want me dead?" he seethed. "Do it, then. Kill me."

She scoffed.

"You value your life too much to be sincere," she warned, arching a brow. "Don't taunt me."

"What's the purpose of a life when it's in your hands?" he countered. "If I have to live on my knees, it won't be to serve you, so if that's your plan, just kill me. You say it's easy," he added, dragging his gaze up towards hers. "I've taken lives before, Granger, and I can promise you it's never once been easy. So prove it," he spat. "Or else how can you possibly win?"

She indulged a pause, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reflexive answer.

"Valid point," she permitted.

He grimaced.

"How do you do it?" he asked her, more taunting than curious. "A curse? A magic spell?"

 _So when you take a life,_  she heard herself ask Tom,  _you do it with a piece of yours?_

"Nothing quite so inelegant," she replied.

 _If I did not imbue something with a piece of myself,_  she heard Tom reply,  _what power would I have over it?_

"Then do it," Draco said, and bent his head again, staring resolutely at the floor.

And yet -

 _Just because you can control something,_  she heard herself lament,  _doesn't mean you should._

She eyed the piece of him, contemplating it; contemplating her own troubled thoughts. Rabastan's life had felt dull and flat and unfaceted but this, whatever this was in her hands, it pulsed with something she might have guessed was tension. It swirled, in motion, undergoing constant shifts and changes, and it was harder just to hold, much less to fully possess. She bit her lip, concentrating; invaded it for a moment, the way Tom had once invaded her, and schooled her breathing, closing her eyes.

She had let Rabastan into her blood and it had been easy enough, but now it seemed her veins spun with volatility, with motion and with conflict. She let a piece of her drift, injecting it momentarily; at her feet, Draco shivered violently, flooded with a chill.

She understood now what Tom meant about killing, about giving or taking enchantment or life; she could close off the piece of herself she'd given Draco, and it would extinguish him forever. She was bigger, sharper, and there was no doubt in her mind that between what existed of him and what held sovereignty from her, he would surely lose.

She made the mistake, though, of opening her eyes.

Of seeing him at her feet.

Of disliking him most this way.

Of loathing him more prostrate than she had ever hated him on his feet.

_Just because you can control something -_

She yanked him up, shoving the piece of him back into his chest and waiting as he gasped, staggering forward; his hands met her hips, steadying himself as he slumped forward in her arms.

"Why do you hate me?" she asked, not quite relinquishing her hold on him. Not yet. "Tell me the truth."

He struggled, tried to fight her, but the words still spilled out.

"I cannot control you," he said bitterly, "and I cannot defy you, and I - "

"You cannot want me," she realized, blinking. "It would cost you everything. Your conscience," she said, "your riches, your status, your father's love, the approval you need so desperately from those around you - " She faltered, staring at him as he managed to raise his head, glaring down at her. "You want to destroy me so that I won't destroy you."

His eyes narrowed, furious, and then she knew it was true.

Not that he seemed inclined to agree.

"You romanticize it," he spat. "Can I not hate you unencumbered?"

"You can," she said. "But you don't."

"You're wrong," he snapped, but she, struck with the bubbling urge to laugh, only shook her head.

"I'm not," she said, and to prove it, she pulled his head down to hers, trading a deliberate, calculated breath between her lips and his before tilting her chin up, brushing them lightly to touch.

Instantly, he stiffened; he inhaled so sharply he stole the motion from her mouth, too, and she felt his breath as fully as if she'd taken it herself. She waited, counting silently to three as their lips touched, motionless; and then, after the taste of the wine from his lips had soaked fully to hers, bleeding between them, he swallowed heavily, deepening the pressure.

She hadn't wanted to make a comparison, but it was inevitable. Tom took his kisses forcefully; snatched them. Draco, on the other hand, wandered gradually into this one, exploring the shape and feel of her lips against his with motions that grew more and more certain, more and more desperate; and then, like he'd been ignited, he yanked her closer, pulling her against him with his fingers wrapped tightly in her hair.

The moment the kiss turned frantic, turned tempting and alluring, she shoved him away, meeting his eyes with triumph.

"Tell me I'm wrong now," she challenged him, and he looked as though he would strangle her with his bare hands.

"Even if I did, it would mean nothing," he returned, glaring at her. "You've stripped me of any autonomy, haven't you?"

She stepped back then, withdrawing her hold on him, and bore her palms plainly, hands out for his inspection as she purposefully put distance between them.

"Tell me I'm wrong, then," she invited. "Tell me you hate me."

He didn't answer.

"Why did you do it?" he asked instead.

"That you would be humbled," she replied easily, setting her jaw. "Now," she beckoned, "tell me you hate me, or suffer a crippling loss, Malfoy."

"Those are my only choices?" he drawled, stalling.

She paused, weighing the worth of the opportunity she held in her hands.

"No," she said. "But are you a man who follows orders, or a man who takes what he wants?"

Draco stared at her, his brow twitching with confusion; he knew it was a trap - she hadn't bothered to hide it - but still, it was a choice between catastrophic errors. Down to the unerring steadiness of her hands, though, she knew which one he would choose.

"I fucking loathe you," he snarled, and gathered her in his arms, kissing her roughly again.

* * *

"Your Majesty," Harry called, chasing after her from the Great Hall as she headed back to her chambers to undress. "Please - "

Pansy tilted her head, arching a brow at Daphne, who permitted a wary nod.

"Lady Hannah, Lady Lavender," Daphne beckoned quietly, gesturing down the corridor. "We'll ready the Queen's nightclothes for her."

Lavender frowned. "But - "

"Come now," Daphne urged, quickening her step. "Do as you're told."

Lavender nodded, hurrying to follow, and Hannah did the same, neither woman looking back as Pansy stepped wordlessly into an alcove, Harry following after her.

"Listen," Harry whispered desperately, his hand floating towards her arm. "I know it looks like things have gone wrong, but - "

"Gone wrong?" Pansy echoed, glaring at him. "Why would you taunt him, Harry? What did you possibly have to gain by baiting him?"

Even in the shadowed alcove, she could see his expression darken, old grudges and ancient history carving lines around the smooth edges of his mouth.

"Tom thinks he's above the law," Harry replied. "He thinks he can go unchallenged, that no one will ever defy him, but - "

"So let him think that!" Pansy snapped. "What do you have to gain by showing him your hand?"

"Everything," Harry retorted. "I have  _everything_  to gain. His court isn't happy," he reminded her brusquely, still bristled with temper, as if she might have stupidly forgotten how things had long been. "You're not the only one who's lost faith in him, and every opportunity that I have to stand against him is a reminder that they don't have to do his bidding. He is King by his nobles' support only, and nothing else."

"But every moment you defy him, you put yourself in danger," Pansy countered, feeling shattered at the thought. "You put everyone close to you in danger, Harry, and you won't be the one to suffer." She broke off, bringing a hand to her mouth. "Your friends will be the ones to die for your defiance," she reminded him hoarsely. "Any family you have, any allies, they will - " she stopped. " _We_  will - "

She swallowed hard, and he stepped forward, taking her face in his hands.

"I will never let him harm you," Harry swore. "I won't let any harm come to you, Pansy, I promise you - "

"You can make no such promise, Harry. He is calling me to his chambers  _tonight_ ," Pansy reminded him, her voice thick with fear. "He could kill me and you would have nothing,  _nothing_  to say, and no means to stop him - "

"Then don't go to him," Harry urged. "Stay with me. I can get you passage with Poliakoff," he added. "I can get you out of here - "

"And spend my life running from a man whose reach is limitless?" Pansy demanded. "No, Harry. I can't afford to play your games, or I will lose my head. I'm only valuable so long as I give him what he wants," she said helplessly, "and the moment I do not, he will happily be rid of me for Herm-"

"Pansy," Harry cut in soothingly, his hand caressing her cheek. "Pansy, don't you see? Your life would be better without him," he murmured. "Don't you see I want a better world for you? For us? Without the King, without Tom, your life would - "

"My life," Pansy realized slowly, taking a cautious step back, "has no significance."

The moment she said it, let the words cross her tongue, she felt an illusion shatter. She saw the pieces fall from the board, dropped one by one by the whims of a man capable of playing them all; of a King -  _two_  Kings - who were the only pieces capable of ending the game, much less managing to withstand it.

Harry blinked. "What? But - "

"You don't need me," Pansy told him, a wave of recognition washing over her with a forceful, terrifying blow. "Your claim to the throne is strong enough that you could rule without me, Harry. Isn't it?" she asked, waiting, and he paused, biting his tongue.

"I would never - "

"But still, you could," she pressed. "If Tom kills me, you can still take the throne. If Tom dies, then the throne is yours, whether I breathe or not."

The game could stand to lose a Queen, she knew.

It was incomplete, however, without one King to check the power of another.

"I am not a queen at all," she realized, pressing the palm of her hand to her perilously thudding heart. "I am a  _pawn_."

She looked down, looked away, looked lost; Harry reached for her, desperate.

"Pansy," he said, holding her like she might slip through the cracks in his fingers. "Pansy, please, don't lose faith in me now - "

" _Lose_  faith?" she asked in disbelief, shutting her eyes. "Harry, my faith was misplaced from the start. I knew you would be the death of me," she said, her hands shaking. "I knew it, and shortly Tom will know it, too. If you are caught, if you're convicted of treason - "

"Pansy," Harry begged, but she shook her head.

"I will burn beside you," she forced out, her eyes snapping open. "We are not a well-kept secret, Harry, and all it takes is suspicion. All it takes is one word, one mention of you pursuing me - a story from a trustworthy noble of you walking with me in the garden, or you disarming me in the courtyard, or - " she trailed off, panicked. "A word from Draco Malfoy, who  _hates_  you and would be glad to see you gone, and then I'm implicated in your schemes - "

"None of that is proof of treason," Harry cut in forcefully. "I've kept you out of all of this - "

"No, you  _haven't_ ," Pansy returned, her voice low and dull; a vacant, empty throb of pain. "You let Poliakoff and Krum appear at my side, you encouraged them to court my favor. All of these things will get back to Tom, and he  _knows_ ," she rasped. "He knows they betrayed him, and he will know  _you_  betrayed him, and then it will only take one piece of gossip to paint me as a traitor, too."

Harry's face paled, his mouth opening and closing on words that couldn't salvage what had already bled out.

"What would you have me do, then, Pansy?" he asked her instead, pulling her close again and pressing his lips firmly to the top of her head. "Would you have me be silent? Say nothing, stand for nothing? Remain at the fringes of court and watch him make a wreckage of the world I love?"

 _Yes,_  she thought,  _yes, isn't it obvious?_

"I would have you by my side," she whispered, her hands drawing up the length of his spine and burying her fingers there; anchored there by him, harboring him in her space. "I would trade my wealth, my jewels, my title if it meant I could live a fearless life with you - "

"Stand with me, then," he told her, his voice quiet in her ear. "I don't fear death, Pansy."

 _That's because you won't be the one to die,_  she didn't say.

"I love you," he promised her, his arms wrapped longingly around her waist, and she shuddered with devastation.

"Come to me tonight," she said, forcing a deep breath. "We'll figure this out, won't we? Save both our lives," she added weakly, attempting a smile as she looked up at him. "Do you love me enough for that?"

"I love you enough for several lifetimes," he swore. "I love you beyond every risk."

She drew back, stroking her thumb along his cheek, and nodded.

"I only wish I deserved it," she whispered, brushing his lips once before hurrying back to her chambers.

* * *

Draco pressed her back against the table, his hands delving without reservation to her waist and digging in more painfully than the corset that cut into her ribs. Hermione fumbled for the ties at his trousers, yanking them down, and he hurriedly lifted her back on the table, the motion of his touch rough and artless against her legs as he drew her gown hurriedly up her thighs.

She leaned back, pulling him towards her, and he slid her hips forward, laying her back against the table; the fire crackled and danced, the flash of it behind them reflecting in the beads of sweat on his forehead as he slid his thumb against her cunt, stroking her, and then slid himself inside her. She let out a sharpened groan, inhaling roughly, and he thrusted again, harder; she arched her back, lifting it from the table as he held tight to the jut of her hips, keeping her close. He leaned forward, his hand reaching up to close slightly at the base of her neck, and she turned her head, baring it for him; he pressed a kiss to the base of her throat, then another, traveling up the side of her neck until his tongue darted around the lobe of her ear, ending in a sharp, malicious bite.

He leaned back to watch her face, staring down at her, and opened his mouth as if he would say something; she swallowed, staring back at him, and then he paused, leaning forward to catch her lips with his again. She kissed him back, delirious and violent, and then he pulled her upright, pressing her chest to his as he continued to fuck her, rhythmic and desperate and filled with a horrible, twisted devastation, as though the hatred they'd set alight between them had taken on an abhorrent life of its own. She came with fury, with rage, biting down on his shoulder and wishing to tear apart the muscle with the edges of her canines; he followed with a groan of madness and pain, his nails sunken into the sides of her thighs as the marks of his lips and teeth raged, like tiny, militant welts, across the exposed skin of her chest.

For a moment they remained frozen, panting, and then he slowly looked into her eyes, the grey of his own sparking with panic.

"What have we done?" he asked hoarsely, his face bloodless with terror. "What have  _you_  done?"

He withdrew, fumbling with his trousers, and she adjusted her skirt, feigning a tranquil indifference that she decidedly did not feel. She flexed her fingers, drawing stillness from them, and slid her hands coolly against the surface of her gown.

"You will not tell him. You  _cannot_ ," she said emphatically, "because he will never trust you again."

"Nor you," he accused furiously, swallowing, and she shook her head.

"He'll take my word over yours," she promised him. "In a heartbeat."

His eyes widened, disbelieving.

"This is a dangerous game you're playing," he said, licking his lips, and finally, she managed to harden her expression, forcing a mocking smile.

"Oh, it certainly is," she agreed, sliding down from the table. "Now I have one of your secrets, Draco Malfoy, and that is more dangerous a fate for you than you can possibly imagine. If you cross me again," she whispered, taunting him with a forward step, "he will know of this, and he will kill you."

"I know one of your secrets, too," he returned coldly, his hand floating impulsively to his chest. "If you think this court won't condemn you for sorcery, for heresy, for  _witchcraft_ \- "

"You can try to accuse me," Hermione shot back. "But if you do, I think you'll find yourself dead before you open your mouth to speak."

He stared at her.

Gauged her; weighed her threats.

"Now you're gambling," he commented, and she gritted out a laugh.

"Is it really a gamble when I know the players so well?" she prompted. "You won't tell a soul - I know you can't afford to. Perhaps you can play a long game, Malfoy, but I can end this here and now. The King will listen to me," she assured him, though by the look on his face, he knew it already. "If I tell him you forced yourself on me, your head will roll."

"Why wouldn't you, then?" he demanded. "Why would I bother believing you'd keep this secret, knowing that's precisely your goal?"

"What, and lose the entertainment of your weakness? No," she scoffed. "Stay alive, Malfoy. Live a long life of loyal service to me, and see how well I wear your favor."

For a moment, she felt a rush of triumph, having trapped him in the confines of a game she knew he was ill-equipped to play.

Only for a moment, though, until his grey eyes abruptly narrowed.

"You didn't kill me because you can't," he mused, prompting her to scowl. "I told you it wasn't easy, and it isn't, is it?" He laughed callously, watching her tighten a fist with irritation. "You don't actually want me dead, do you, Granger?"

Instantly, she wished she had killed him.

Still, she hadn't fully ruled it out.

"An adorable quality of yours, underestimating me," she returned tangentially, knowing that that, at least, would remind him not to make the same mistake twice. "You risked your life that I would be humbled, and look how spectacularly you failed," she pronounced, gifting him a mocking bow. "Was it worth it, Draco?"

Again he stared at her, measuring her, and then he took a step. She struggled not to falter, her hand flying back to rest on the edge of the table, but he bent his head without hesitation - without tentativeness, without calculation, without pause - and roughly kissed her again. It was less biting this time, less tainted with venom, but still there was anger to it, and wrath, and Hermione, having held the whole of his being in her palm once before, felt it again when her hand flew up to rest against his chest. She felt the staggering weight of his refusal to perish, the hardened edges of his soul as it carved itself beneath her fingers, all of it drifting like waves beneath her hand; she felt him and condemned him, feeling him spark against her touch.

For a moment she blinked, feeling something rise up again in the recesses of her mind;  _a snake_ , she thought,  _and a lioness_ , passion and blood and bone. A touch in the darkness, the sputtering of a candle flame, the hollow glow of a raised crown, a strike of steel against gold - a brash darkness,  _a bright paleness_  -

 _Was it worth it?_  she had asked, and wondered what answer he'd give when he finally tore his lips from hers.

"You tell me," he said bitterly, and turned to leave, slamming the door behind him just as the fire behind her flickered, abruptly swallowed up.

* * *

Tom paced the floor of his chambers as Pansy stood before him, his fingers tightly gripping the emerald-laden hilt of a dagger. She was dressed for bed, but saw that any such activity was not in her husband's plans; instead, he merely tore back and forth across the floor, not meeting anyone's eye.

Hermione, still in her gown for the evening, rose to her feet, approaching him. She placed a hand on his arm, steadying him, and he turned, slamming the blade of the dagger into the table before him. Even at a distance, Pansy could see what he had done; the edge of the blade tore through the letters  _Grimmauld_  where they were curled, scripted, along the northern regions of the map of Diagon.

"Breathe," Hermione warned him, her expression colder than Pansy had ever seen it. The other woman's frame was rigid, unmoving, and where Pansy had once hated her for her lack of bend, she now felt increasingly awed, knowing Hermione's control over Tom was perhaps the most powerful weapon that either woman possessed. "Suppress your temper," she added quietly, and Tom stiffened, the tension in his shoulders slowly drifting at her touch until he exhaled slowly, the unknowable mania slowly leaving his gaze.

No wonder he wanted her, Pansy thought.

The woman was clearly a witch.

"The Duke of Grimmauld is receiving funds from Queen Olympe," Tom said flatly, and neither woman betrayed surprise at the information. "I suspect Poliakoff and Krum have been involved. I've dispatched Mulciber and Snape to take care of the issue," he added icily, his gaze swiveling to Pansy. "Do you know what I mean when I say that, wife?"

She blinked.

"They will no longer be a problem to your reign," she ventured, trying to phrase it as a question and failing, her certainty of her husband's nature getting the better of her.

Tom's mouth twitched, accommodating a darkened smile.

"No," he agreed. "They will not. Do you believe the Duke of Grimmauld has allies, Hermione?" he asked, turning to her, and her expression, artfully stilled as it already was, decidedly did not waver.

"He must," she permitted, her hand smoothing across Tom's shoulder and ending with her lips near his ear. "As do you," she said softly, the words nearly inaudible from where Pansy still waited across the room. "You would be wise to uncover them."

Tom's blue eyes darkened, turning glacially cold.

When they fell on Pansy's, she felt her heart stop.

"Do you agree, Pansy?" he invited. "You appear to favor Harry," he added, daring her to disagree, though his voice remained unnervingly neutral. "Unless I'm misinformed."

"I," Pansy attempted, and swallowed, suspecting outright denial would be unwise. "Favor is a strong term," she began, but Tom didn't seem interested in the rest of her answer.

"We must be a unified front, you know," Tom told her. "Or Harry's campaign, pitiful as it is, will gain momentum. You would be a powerful ally for him," he added carefully, "given the proximity of your lands, and the sway you hold with the Loyalists."

Pansy caught the minute stiffening of Hermione's fingers, but neither woman said a word.

"Do I need to ask you where your loyalties lie, Pansy?" Tom asked her, taking a step towards her to deliver himself from Hermione's reach. For a moment, Hermione's displaced hand wavered in the air before floating down to her side, and Pansy's heart rose up in her throat, his proximity dangerously looming.

"No, Your Majesty," Pansy forced out, half-choking on the words. "You are my husband and my King, and I do not forget that."

He gave her a moment; a few steady beats of time.

Then he smiled.

"Good," Tom pronounced crisply, turning back to his desk to glance over the map as the emeralds of the dagger's hilt glinted in the firelight. "Tomorrow Poliakoff and Krum will receive unpleasant news of their families in Durmstrang," he informed both women, his voice mockingly indifferent. "I suspect they will take their leave shortly after. I suspect, also, they will feel a certain sense of urgency to confess, and therefore whatever sources have conspired against me will likely be revealed. Remember, Pansy," he added, glancing over his shoulder, "it is always possible to lose everything. Even when one believes there is nothing left."

Pansy nodded numbly, feeling her knees weaken.

"But," he continued, turning to face her, "I need you. So long as you remain loyal, you are useful to me. Perhaps more useful than I thought," he added, "should Harry make any false steps. And he is so wont to step falsely, isn't he?" he remarked, chuckling, before stepping towards Hermione, bending to press a greedy kiss to the back of her neck.

Hermione and Pansy locked eyes, both women stiffening.

Then Pansy forced a nod, blinking away the image of Tom's hands closing around Hermione's shoulders.

"May I be excused, Tom?" she asked. "I'm afraid it's been rather a long night."

"Yes, of course, and a long day tomorrow," Tom agreed, the sound of it muffled mockingly into Hermione's skin. "Sleep well, my Queen."

Pansy nodded, curtseying, and turned to the door before pausing, her hand resting on the handle.

"I wonder," she began, turning slowly to glance over her shoulder at Hermione, "might I have my lady to assist me this evening? I suspect my other ladies might have gone to bed," she began, aiming for detachment. "I dismissed them for the evening, having considered their services unnecessary due to Lady Hermione's presence."

At that, Hermione's brown eyes narrowed, a flash of something terrible and cruel manifesting in them as her mouth snapped open, but it was Tom who spoke first.

"Of course," he said. "She'll be right there."

* * *

The moment that Tom permitted her service to his estranged wife, Hermione suffered an unexpected jab of something ruthlessly sharp, and far worse than pain; a realization, she thought with horror, of something she had foolishly failed to see.

Tom still had a use for his wife, she realized; far more than he had previously let on. And when Hermione battled back her temper - her fury at his ease in carelessly relinquishing her to Pansy - she found with curdling displeasure that despite her opposition, she could clearly see why.

Pansy was born to be a Queen, and carried herself without doubt; whatever wit she possessed that Tom had discounted or ambition that Tom had felt she lacked, her pedigree would never be questioned, and her popularity never scrutinized. She was a woman blessed with the  _right_  blood, the  _right_  birth, and who had borne her privilege with painstaking care; and as such, Pansy would always be valuable to Tom as long as she lived.

Hermione's power, by contrast, was checked by the Queen's very existence; Hermione's possession of Tom's favor, no matter how unwavering - and clearly, it was not - would never be enough to keep her safe so long as the King continued to see a need for another woman. The nobles did not truly care for Hermione, she knew; they were either threatened by her influence or, in the case of Draco Malfoy, actively plotting against her. Olympe's displeasure had already been made obvious, and Karkaroff was no reliable ally - so what, then, did she have?

The King, she thought; the winning piece, but only so long as she held him resolutely in her hand. Shamefully, Hermione suffered again, knowing such a realization had only one logical conclusion.

Her station would never be secure until the Queen of Diagon was gone.

* * *

Pansy walked quickly beside Hermione, putting distance between them and Tom's chambers as Daphne's voice resounded in her mind.

 _If Harry's plot has advanced to this point, it's only a matter of time until the King connects you with him,_  Daphne said firmly.  _And then you are in danger, and -_

She had broken off, hissing sharply, and Pansy had struggled to help her sit.

 _You must do everything possible to survive, Pansy_ , Daphne begged her, flinching as she held her hand to her stomach.  _And we - we will have to -_

 _Not we,_  Pansy said, shifting to sit beside her on the bed as she soothed her friend's pains.  _I will fix this myself. You've done enough already._

Daphne had nodded regretfully, her anguish doubled by fear, and Pansy had resolved to take matters into her own hands.

 _I will fix this myself_ , she thought again now, glancing askance at Hermione.

* * *

**The Act**

_Two women exist in a battleground of conflict, their minds clouded with doubt. They walk quietly in silence, bearing their burdens separately, until they finally turn to face one another. One is a queen diminished to a liar; the other is a pauper who climbed to a thief._

_The Liar turns to The Thief, her crown glinting from the torches that line the halls._

_Begin scene._

**oOo**

**The Liar:**  "Lady Nott is with child. It seems to pain her more than normal."

_[The Thief turns slowly to face The Liar, sparing the other a glance as they pause in the silent corridor. The silence is rich, humming with things yet unsaid; while some silences are thin with disinterest or meager with fear, this one is thick, and laden with conspiracy._

_The Thief blinks, as though torn from a thought, or traveling from another world entirely. The Liar persists.]_

**The Liar:**  "I don't wish to involve her in the things I'm about to say. May I presume you would not wish harm to come to her either?"

_[The Thief pauses, considering the turn of events, and nods. She is surprised not by the question, but by future things; by the promise of motives that have not yet been shared.]_

**The Thief:**  "I have nothing against Lady Nott. She has been far fairer to me than any of the others, and I wish her no ill will."

 **The Liar:**  "Good. Then I must ask you to keep this between us."

_[The Thief knows better than to say anything; she is practiced in her clever heists. She waits._

_The Liar, by contrast, lacks familiarity with truth. She struggles.]_

**The Liar:**  "I know you know more than you said in there. Much as I regret having to say it, I have to thank you for that, but - "  _[She pauses.]_  "I have one more favor to ask you, first."

_[The Thief stiffens. The light from the torches catches for a moment in her hair, and for what feels like the span of a perilous heartbeat, The Liar forcefully blinks, clearing away the image of a circlet of gold above the other woman's head.]_

**The Thief:**  "I'm listening."

_[The Liar closes her eyes, steadying herself.]_

**The Liar:**  "I'll give you Harry, but you have to do something for me in exchange."

_[The Thief pauses. She is not nearly as certain as she claims that her latest gambles have successfully strengthened her hand, and given what she has recently come to realize about her position, this is a tempting offer._

_Still, she trusts nothing but the power she steals for herself.]_

**The Thief:**  "I could give the King information myself that would ruin you. Why would I need you to aid in your own destruction?"

 **The Liar:**  "You could have ruined me already. But you don't wish to."

_[Both women nod. They already know as much.]_

**The Thief:**  "You know you are in danger, then. Even without my help."

 **The Liar:**  "Yes. I know."

 **The Thief:** "And you don't trust your lover to keep you safe?"

_[The Liar pauses. A confession awaits, and it is truer and more damaging than anything else she will say to The Thief this night.]_

**The Liar:**  "I trust that I am more use to the men of this kingdom dead than I am alive. I trust your cunning more than I trust my own fate."

_[The Thief sees in The Liar's eyes how much this statement pains her. She knows The Liar will follow her heart to the ends of the earth, though whether The Liar is aware of this herself is less clear._

_The Liar waits, paralyzed, for a response; she is bereft now of falsehood._

_The Thief accounts for one more theft, but she borrows a skill she has learned from The Liar, and keeps this part of her plan to herself.]_

**The Thief,**  who is now  **The Puppeteer** : "I will help you."

 **The Liar,**  who is now  **The Traitor** : "I leave it in your hands."

**oOo**

_End scene._

_Begin devastation._

* * *

When Harry enters her chambers, Pansy faces away from him, and hears him stop in his tracks; she knows he is warned by the stiffness in her shoulders that all is not well in this room, nor in this world, nor in this love they've so negligently dreamt up between them.

"What is about to happen will feel like a betrayal," she says, "and for a moment you will hate me."

She turns to face him, her beautiful mouth lined with sorrow.

"Try not to let it last."


	15. Glory Rising, Glory Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: this chapter pairs nicely with Lion by Saint Mesa; I recommend playing it immediately upon finishing for a full-bodied read. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tk36ovCMsU8]

**Chapter 15: Glory Rising, Glory Run**

"Pansy," Harry said hoarsely, "please."

He took a step forwards and Pansy shrank back, half-stumbling, knowing that if he touched her, if she looked at him too long, if the comfort of his voice settled into her pulse for even the span of a breath she would falter, would turn and run - would diminish to nothing, nothing, nothing at all - and she couldn't allow it. She had a plan, had a purpose; had no choice.

 _A lesser crime,_  she had begged,  _something that can be disproven, if all else fails -_

 _Anything short of treason would require time for a trial by council,_  Hermione had replied, confirming Pansy's inclinations, and then glanced up, her brow furrowed.  _Though Tom and the Loyalists would likely bully the others into sentencing him regardless. You're sure you're willing to take that chance, Pansy?_

She was not; not then, and certainly not now, not with him so hauntingly, terribly close.

 _The timing,_  Pansy had forced out instead, swallowing hard,  _would have to be precise. I could not be seen giving in to him, or else -_

She had trailed off, shuddering.

 _I agree,_  Hermione permitted, her eyes darkened with calculation.  _But make no mistake about what you're doing. Can you really condemn the man you love to the dungeons?_

No. Never.

But she was a woman fighting for her life, and Harry's risks meant inevitable consequences.

 _That,_  Pansy exhaled,  _is where I need your help, Hermione, or else I would do this on my own. Surely you know how much it costs me to come to you._

At that, Hermione's lips had twisted; a motion of irony, of mirthless humor.

 _Oh, I know,_  she agreed,  _and surely the cost will be greater even than you realize._

"I can keep you safe," Harry whispered, his green eyes wild with something Pansy knew wasn't fear - he wasn't capable - but what she was certain was panic, the truth of her trap starting to settle warily in his bones. "I can take care of you, Pansy, I can protect you - "

"You  _can't_ ," she blurted desperately, shaking her head. "As we speak, everyone who has ever mattered to Poliakoff and Krum is being slaughtered," she reminded him, aching and close to choking on the words. "You can't protect me any more than they can protect their families. But Harry - " She dropped her voice, holding his gaze intently. "I can protect you if you'll let me," she whispered. "If you'll just trust me, I can save your life, I can save both of us from your own carelessness, your  _recklessness_  - "

"Pansy, don't do this," he begged her, advancing again to close his fingers gently around her wrist. "Pansy,  _please -_ "

"Guards!" she shouted, feeling like her heart would shatter in her chest - would sharpen like knives and pierce right through the spaces in her ribs, delivering her from the pain of her own betrayal - and behind him, the doors to her chamber burst open, revealing Tom's guards.

"Pansy," Harry begged, reaching wildly for her. "Please don't do this - "

"He's there," she said, stumbling backwards and pointing to him, no longer pretending when her knees would not hold her up. "Grab him, somebody,  _please -_ "

The two guards closest took hold of Harry's arms, a third holding a blade to his throat as he struggled to yank himself from their grasp, not taking his eyes from Pansy's. He twisted, violently attempting to wrench his arms free, but they would not relent, and a fourth guard held a dagger to his back as Harry forced a cruel, bitter smile, consenting to be captured once he knew he would not win.

"This is truly what you want, Your Majesty?" Harry asked her, the words dripping like venom from his lips. "This is what you wish for me, my Queen?"

_My Queen._

What a fool she'd been to think her title a blessing, or even a right.

"Your Majesty," Daphne said, hurrying into the room and struggling to keep Pansy upright, her arms around Pansy's waist. "Your Majesty, what's happening?"

Pansy turned her head, forcing her eyes shut; unable to watch him go.

"Take him away," she rasped, and sank to the floor, slipping from Daphne's arms to collapse in a heap of empty riches, the silk of her nightgown closing cruelly around her skin until she felt she would be strangled by the fabric.

She didn't look up as Tom's guards dragged Harry away; instead, the vision of his torment swam blindly before her eyes. This, she knew, was the cruelest manifestation of the emerald gaze that had so ruthlessly haunted her; the face that had made an unrelenting home in every corner of her mind. This, she knew, was pain and deliverance and misery all at once, and she suffered beneath the weight of her loss without restraint.

Daphne carefully lowered herself beside her, stroking Pansy's hair as she shuddered, convulsing in aching, soundless sobs. "What's happened?" Daphne asked, but Pansy could hear in her voice that the question was not directed at her.

She dragged her gaze up blearily, catching the familiar fabric of another woman's gown.

"You promised," Pansy delivered flatly, her chest burning in anguish as her voice emerged in a dull, unfaceted drone, and Hermione's expression didn't change.

"Yes," Hermione said. "And I will keep my word."

* * *

Hermione strode down to the dungeons, contemplating the steps ahead.

 _You have to help me let him go,_  Pansy had said, her voice nearly delirious.  _Once he's been arrested you have to find a way for him to escape, Hermione - you must not allow him to land within Tom's clutches -_

 _That's your plan, then?_  Hermione had asked, skeptical at first.  _You wish to be the one to imprison him so as to release yourself from suspicion, and then you wish to simply set him free, and say goodbye?_

 _Yes,_  Pansy said, without hesitation.  _I will let him go. I_ must  _let him go. Without me, he will survive. Without him, I will survive. Isn't that the most we can hope for?_ She paused, shutting her eyes.  _Isn't that the most I can ask?_

It was, and a wise choice, too, and if Hermione had entertained any doubts before, she recognized in that moment the spark of envy she had for Pansy; for a woman who'd always risen so beautifully she had never known what it was to sink, and would never understand what someone who'd lived life scraping at the bottom was willing to do to climb to the top.

 _Surely you realize that by freeing a traitor who opposes Tom's reign, I put him at risk,_  Hermione reminded her.  _Why would I ever agree to it?_

This, too, Pansy had clearly anticipated.

 _I will step aside,_  Pansy promised her.  _When Tom inevitably tires of me, once he's won his bloodied empire and he wants me gone, I will not stand in your way - I swear it, Hermione. I swear, if you save Harry's life, I will relinquish my crown._

It was a tempting promise;  _too_  tempting, and too easily made, and so Hermione knew better, even if Pansy did not. However sincere Pansy was in the moment, Hermione knew that a woman who had been diminished to nothing - who had been bullied into a lifetime of loss - would never willingly release the one thing she possessed.

Hermione knew that the Queen of Diagon was far too proud and vastly too clever a woman to be trusted to surrender her crown, and so there was one more loose end to tie up.

"Leave us," she called to the guards. "You may inform the King of his arrest when I'm finished with him."

"Lady Hermione," one of them protested uneasily, "this is highly unorthodox. As the captain of His Majesty's guard, I cannot - "

She waved a hand and the guard's face went blank; Tom had said once that the more docile a conscience, the easier to manipulate, and he had been right. The guard blinked once, beckoned to the others, and then turned, disappearing with them around a corner and permitting Hermione to face the prisoner behind the iron bars.

"Lord Henry," she said, as Harry turned his head stiffly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

"What did you just do?" he asked warily, gesturing to the captain, but Hermione opted to ignore the question, instead leaning casually against the bars that separated them.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," she commented, and Harry grimaced.

"This doesn't seem like Pans- like the Queen," he amended hastily, his gaze darting away. "She must have been pressured, or threatened - "

"You think I put her up to this?" Hermione asked, wanting terribly to laugh. "If you think  _I've_  been the threat that's put you here, then you misunderstand completely, Your Grace."

Harry's expression stiffened.

"I'm behind bars," he said gruffly, after a moment. "I should think Harry would suffice."

"Harry, then," Hermione permitted. "If we are to be friends."

"We are most certainly not friends," he snapped. "Whoever's plot this is, I can only assume Tom will have my head in the morning for it - and with you on his arm, no doubt."

"I'm a friend for the time being," Hermione corrected, "considering that I come as an extension of my Queen this evening, and not my King."

Harry scoffed. "You are your own woman," he muttered. "You think I don't see the way you play with the nobles at court? With Tom, with the Queen? You serve no one but yourself," he delivered flatly, and she gave a pointed, affected sigh, shaking her head.

"I suppose you think me self-serving, and perhaps you're right," she permitted. "But it's quite easy to identify in others that which we excel at ourselves, isn't it?"

He turned sharply, glaring at her. "What does that mean?"

"Why, Harry, I thought that would be obvious," Hermione mused, tutting softly. "I'm clearly calling you selfish."

His expression turned murderous. "How can you  _possibly_  - "

"Did you really not know that Pansy would be trapped by what you've done?" she asked him, cutting him off. "You came to her when she was most vulnerable, when she was lowest and most pained - "

"By  _you_ ," he spat, "and by  _Tom -_ "

" - and you made her subject to the danger of your schemes," Hermione continued. "You made her a pressure point for the King, a piece of leverage, and because of you, Harry, she will never be safe. Well," she amended, resigning herself to fairness, "because of  _us_  she will never be safe, but unlike you, I never pretended to love her."

"I'm not pretending," Harry protested angrily, scrambling to his feet to face her. "I will fight for her until the day I die, I would  _die_  for her - "

"Yes, but you would fight regardless," Hermione told him. "You would die for almost anyone, Harry, as that's clearly in your nature. Isn't it?" she prompted knowingly, and his expression contorted again, floating helplessly between episodes of rage and disbelief. "It's funny, isn't it? That you can be so selfless and so selfish all at once," she ventured thoughtfully. "A hero's disposition makes for a very strange thing. You feel you must save the world, don't you? You feel you have a cause that only you can bring about, and perhaps you do - but even if you are right, Harry," she murmured, "if you had ever truly loved the woman more than you loved yourself, perhaps you might have done better than to put her life in danger."

His green eyes widened, and for a moment he was defensive, defiant; but when her words sank in, his chin sank, gradually humbled.

"I just wanted to be with her," he said, looking pained. "I love her. I want her to be happy, I want her to be  _safe_  - "

"Safety is a luxury," Hermione cut in tersely, shaking her head. "It's a reward that comes with making no mistakes and you, Your Grace, have made many. You played with a woman's life," she finished coldly, "and because you were careless, you will suffer for it."

In the silent moment that followed, the earth seemed to turn, and the universe to shift; Harry opened his mouth to speak and changed his mind, snapping it shut, and the world as it had been ceased to exist.

And then, for the first time, the rebellion went out of Harry's eyes; in a moment, in a brief trick of the light, he seemed only a man with a tangible weakness, and not the foundation of an entire revolution.

Just as she'd suspected he was.

"There is, of course," Hermione ventured, "potential to redeem yourself."

He froze, his knuckles tightening around the bars.

"Meaning what?" he prompted warily, and she let out a vacant sigh.

"The Queen has asked me to release you," she said, "and while you may think little of me, I will assure you that in this instance, I intend to keep my word. I will even consider bestowing a favor," she added delicately, "provided we are able to come to some understanding."

He paused, tension rooting in his shoulders.

"I can't leave her here with you, can I?" he asked bluntly. "You will destroy her. You'll take her place. She would be a fool to trust you, and if it comes to a matter of her life or yours, you won't hesitate to be rid of her, will you?"

"In fairness, the Queen is not a fool," Hermione said, shrugging. "Pansy is a highly capable woman, though it appears I have found her one flaw. She loves quite fiercely, doesn't she?" Hermione lamented. "I cannot imagine she will do anything but suffer once you've gone."

Harry shut his eyes, shaking his head.

"I can't leave her," he said hoarsely. "I won't. If I have to risk my life to save her, then so be it, but - "

"Always with the life-risking," Hermione commented. "One would think you have a death wish, Harry."

"I'm not afraid of dying," Harry retorted. "It only matters that my life mean something."

"Well, that's very charming of you," Hermione informed him, "albeit quite stupid. You know, despite your determination to stand against each other, you and Tom are not so different," she remarked off-handedly. "You both have very strange relationships with the prospects of your own deaths. I do wonder which of you has got it right."

Harry arched a brow, displeased. "I don't think he would care to hear you speak that way," he remarked drily, deflecting from what he clearly found a distasteful comparison. "Do you not worry you will be charged with treason? After all, you intend to free his most powerful enemy," he pointed out, "and I suspect you've kept his wife's infidelity a secret for quite some time."

"I am many things, Harry," Hermione told him, shrugging. "A traitor, however, I am  _not_. The reality is that I see the bigger picture, and I am willing to overlook a small advancement in the game in exchange for a much larger win on the board."

Harry's mouth twitched.

"Meaning?" he sighed, as if he dreaded the answer.

Rightfully so, in her view.

Hermione stepped closer. "I will take the opponent's king off the board before he has a chance to play," she murmured, gesturing to the bars between them and watching the knuckles of Harry's hands turn white.

"I said you could redeem yourself, and I meant it," she said before he could open his mouth, abruptly stepping back. "You and Pansy will both be safe from me -  _if,_ " she pronounced emphatically, "you swear to me now that you will no longer present a challenge to Tom's throne."

He grimaced, the frame of his shoulders rigid with tension.

"Take care not to mistake me for Tom," he informed her darkly. "My desire to see him gone has nothing to do with wanting his crown for myself. He is ruthless and cruel, arrogant and corrupt, and he no more deserves to sit on that throne and rule than any tyrant that's ever lived, so if you think I will stand aside - "

"Tom has flaws," Hermione permitted. "I will fix them."

"You put quite a lot of stock in your influence," Harry accused, scowling. "Too much, I suspect. Do you really think he will listen to you forever? That you will be able to control him indefinitely? Because others have made that mistake before," he warned, leaning closer, "and believe me, you are putting your faith in the wrong man if he is the one you choose."

"Not at all. I put my faith in  _me_ ," Hermione corrected breezily. "And so did Pansy, and now I'm offering you the same opportunity. Put your faith in me, Harry," she offered, extending a hand for his through the bars, "and perhaps you will find yourself rewarded."

He eyed her hand skeptically.

"You're asking me to sacrifice my birthright," he told her, swallowing hard. "Once I'm gone he will strip me of my titles, my lands. Pansy's, too. We'll be forced out of court, out of favor and with nowhere to go, and the crown that should be mine will remain with a despot that I despise."

"Yes," Hermione agreed steadily. "But," she reminded him, not relinquishing her hand, "you'll have your freedom, and you'll have her."

He hesitated, clearly tempted.

"How can you promise that?" he pressed, insistent. "She's a woman of her own mind, and she values her crown, her duty, her station. Has she said that she would go with me?"

"You know she will," Hermione replied. "The Queen is not a difficult woman to understand. She wants more desperately than anything to be loved, and you know this," she added carefully, "or you would never have had her to begin with."

"And what do you want, then?" Harry prompted. "What do you gain from this?"

Hermione felt herself smile.

"Watch and find out," she invited, extending her hand further, and Harry, half-holding his breath, consented to slip his hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

He leapt back with a jolt, surprised, as she bound him to his promise; a slithering of ice and power wrapped itself around their wrists, holding them in place.

"Do you swear on your life," Hermione asked him, "that you will not challenge Tom for his throne?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, staring, as the strands of power from her palm multiplied to twine their hands in place, streams of light bursting from within them. "How are you - what is this - "

"Swear it," Hermione repeated, locking eyes with him. "Do you swear?"

For a moment he looked like he might hesitate, might change his mind; but then, steeling his resolve, he set his jaw, tightening his grip around hers.

"I swear it," he gritted out, and the beams of magic from their hands erupted to fill his cell with a burst of light, nearly delivering them both to blindness.

* * *

The air in the castle was stiffer than a corpse as Pansy made her way down the stairs, still shaking. Daphne had wanted to go with her, to comfort her, but it would have been no use; for any of this to work, everyone had to believe she was safely in her chambers. She snuck out of her rooms with her hand over her mouth, holding back the sound of her still-unsteady breathing.

She met Hermione at the entrance to the dungeons, the light from the torches giving the other woman a strange, terrible glow.

"Is it done?" Pansy asked, swallowing heavily, and Hermione turned.

"No," she said simply, and before Pansy could speak, Hermione shook her head, pausing her. "I thought you would want to do it yourself," she said, holding up the key. "I imagine it would be painful for you to let him leave without saying goodbye."

"No," Pansy said instantly, "no, I can't - if I see him, if this - "

She trailed off, stammering.

"If you see him," Hermione finished for her, "your heart will break. But I'm not interested in the state of your heart." She took hold of Pansy's hand, depositing the key in it. "If you want him freed, then let that be on your conscience."

"But - "

"Quickly," Hermione warned. "Word will spread, and Tom will be here soon."

Pansy blinked, her heart pounding in her chest, but she nodded without a word, turning towards the dungeons and racing through the corridor.

"Harry," she whispered, stumbling to the end of the cells and pausing outside his door. She fumbled with the key to his cell as he rose to his feet, light flickering against the familiar angles of his face, and she forced herself not to pause, not to let the words  _I'm so sorry, forgive me, Harry, please forgive me_  bleed helplessly from her lips as the latch mercifully clicked.

She stepped back to throw the door open, her heart frozen in her chest.

"Go," she said, letting out a startled gasp at the sound of footsteps behind her, either real or fearfully imagined. "Harry, you have to go now, they'll come for you - "

But he wasn't listening; he took her face in his hands and kissed her, his fingers steady around the edge of her jaw as if she hadn't wronged him, as if he would never let go; as if he were still only holding her in her chambers, pretending they belonged together as they'd done each night before. She bit her own lip in her haste, blood and salt mixing on her tongue as tears slipped down her cheeks, and the taste of him leaving was bitter and metallic and cruel, burning like acid down her throat as she shoved him away, conjuring the last reserves of her strength.

"Go," she said again, forcing it out, and he shook his head, clinging to her.

"Come with me. Pansy," he whispered, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. "Pansy, I won't go without you."

She froze, uncertain.

"Harry, I - "

"Come with me, Pansy, please," he begged her. "Are you with me?" he asked, leaning back to look at her and repeating it. "Are you with me?"

She felt the word  _yes_  vibrate inescapably in her bones, suffered the crushing certainty of  _always_ , forced herself to swallow the unerring truth of  _how could I ever refuse?_ in favor of a breath, a skidding pulse, a crushing moment of pause.

"Is that really what you want?" she asked him, hoping one of them would be sane enough to stop what would surely ruin them both, and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I have only ever wanted you," he whispered, and she shivered, letting the words travel unrelentingly down her spine.

_I was dead when you found me -_

_I'm living on borrowed time -_

"I won't fail you," she promised him. "I will never fail you."

He exhaled a deep sigh of relief, of determination, of fortune; and then -

"We have to go now," he said, taking her hand and pulling her after him. "There's no time - if Tom finds out - "

But they both jumped at the sound of footsteps, turning breathlessly towards the oncoming form that manifested from the shadows.

"Made a decision, then, Your Majesty?" Hermione prompted, and Pansy realized with a sharp, stabbing pain of fury that this must have been her plan all along.

Pansy's stomach lurched, torn from uncertainty, but at the tightening of Harry's hand in hers, she knew there was no turning back from the choice that she'd made; once the promise of him had taken root in her soul, there was no relinquishing her grasp.

"Yes," she said, and Hermione paused as she reached them.

"Be sure it's the right one, Pansy," she warned. "I may be saving you from the King's wrath this time, but if you try to come back, I'll kill you myself."

Pansy held her gaze. "I don't believe that," she said stonily, and Hermione shrugged.

"Fine," she conceded without hesitation, gesturing to Harry, "then I'll take what you love, and kill him instead." She searched Pansy's face, giving her a cold, unbending sweep. "Do you believe  _that_?"

Pansy felt it again; the shudder up her spine at the coldness in Hermione's voice.

"Yes," Pansy murmured, and Hermione's lips quirked, satisfied.

They'd always had a certain understanding.

"Then run, little queen," Hermione invited, turning to leave. "And pray I don't catch you," she added over her shoulder, but Pansy slipped from Harry's hold to reach out for Hermione, her voice low and urgent in the other woman's ear.

"You'll never be happy with him," Pansy told her; a warning of her own. "Tom is not a man worth your loyalty, and I swear to you, you will gain nothing from putting your faith in him. This path you're choosing will only bring you misery, Hermione - "

"Is that a curse?" Hermione cut in drily, unflinching.

"No, it isn't," Pansy said, shaking her head. "It's a promise."

Hermione held her gaze, contemplating it, and then drew her shoulders back.

"Frankly, I've sworn enough oaths for the day," she said, stepping away, "and you have a matter of minutes to leave before Tom knows Harry's been brought here. You would be wise to run far, and fast," she advised, meeting Harry's eye over Pansy's shoulder, "and to stay gone."

He nodded, reaching again for Pansy's hand.

"Let's go," he told her, giving Hermione a slow, steady nod before taking off at a run, pulling Pansy with him.

Pansy, glancing over her shoulder, saw a smile of triumph on Hermione's face, her chin raised, and rather than feeling anger, or shame, or pride or fury or fear, she found she only felt relief. For a woman who'd fought so hard for her crown - who'd put it so firmly above all else and borne it like her birthright - Pansy wished desperately that she had it now, if only so that she could fling it at Hermione's face.

 _Have it, then,_  Pansy thought, racing out of the castle with her fingers laced with Harry's, refusing to look back no matter how badly it pained her.

 _Have it,_  she thought bitterly,  _and may you suffer as greatly as I have suffered for its keeping._

* * *

"OPEN THE DOOR," Tom roared, Hannah and Lavender both shaking as Daphne stood before Pansy's chambers, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "For the love of god, woman, your King commands you to step aside - "

"My Queen isn't yet decent," Daphne protested, and grimaced in pain, her hand floating to her stomach. "Your Majesty, please, if you could just - "

"Your Majesty," Hermione interrupted coolly, sidestepping two of Tom's guards as she entered the room. "What's this?"

"My guards tell me that Harry was found in the Queen's chambers, but that he is now  _missing_ ," Tom hissed, turning rigidly at the sound of her voice. "And if Lady Nott does not permit me entry to my  _own wife's_  bedchambers," he added through gritted teeth, brandishing the statement at Daphne, "then I will happily have her take his place in chains - "

"Your Majesty, Lady Nott is troubled by the stress of her pregnancy," Hermione supplied, stepping between Tom and Daphne, "and it would not do to deprive Lord Nott the health of his unborn son simply because you are in a temper. Calm down," she said sharply, and though she could see the faces that blanched at her semi-public admonishment of their King, Tom's demeanor stiffened, accommodating a gradual cooling as he let out a gruff indication of acknowledgement. "Now," Hermione said, turning to Daphne. "Perhaps Lady Nott will appease her King's wishes?"

Daphne blinked, staring at her.

"What are you doing?" she hissed at a whisper, still clutching her stomach. Hermione could see in the woman's pale face that she feared the absence behind the door, but there was nothing that could be said to comfort her.

"Open the door, Lady Nott," Hermione said sharply, and Daphne, who was Hermione's superior by every conceivable measure save for certainty of command, ground her teeth together and nodded in concession, slowly opening the door behind her.

Tom stormed in, took one look at the Queen's neatly made bed, and let out a howl of rage, consummately inflamed as the fire behind him reared up in the hearth. He picked up the chess set that had been left out on Pansy's table and threw the board and its contents against the wall, pivoting in place as the ivory pieces shattered the reflective glass of her vanity.

"WHERE IS SHE?" he demanded, his blue eyes lit with fury, and turned sharply to Daphne. "You will tell me where your Queen has gone," he threatened, taking hold of her arms, "or so help me - "

"I don't know," Daphne said stonily. "She's - perhaps she is unwell, Your Majesty, and needed some air - "

"Don't you  _dare_  lie to me," Tom snarled, and once again, Hermione took hold of his shoulder, drawing him back.

"Your anger is misplaced, my King," she told him. "Whatever sins the Queen has committed, Lady Nott is clearly not privy to them."

"She will tell me," Tom snapped, wrenching free of Hermione's grip, "or she will pay dearly for her silence!"

"Tom," Hermione warned firmly, taking his face in her hands and turning him towards her. "The wife of one of your most powerful families is not to be used as a target for your temper." She pulled him aside, taking his shaking hands and forcing him to look at her. "This is a good thing," she whispered to him. "This is what you've been waiting for, Tom, this is precisely what you needed. Harry and Pansy have both betrayed you, and now what is theirs belongs to you. Grimmauld and the Borderlands can be stripped and redesignated to the crown," she reminded him. "They will no longer stand in the way of your progress to Beauxbatons."

"But I am openly disrespected -  _unmanned_ ," he hissed, his teeth tearing at his lip. "She has to pay for this - they will  _both_  have to pay for this - "

"And they will," Hermione said flatly. "They will both pay, and you will hardly have to dirty your hands to do it. Without either claim to the throne they have no money, no land, no allies, no resources. You have them both in your grasp," she urged, taking one of his hands and slowly easing it into a fist, "and in the simplest of motions, you can crush them. No one will dare stand with them," she reminded him. "No noble, rebel or otherwise, would dare take the side of two disinherited traitors now."

She'd learned, after all, that the only thing the court could not abide was someone whose blood had been dirtied.

Gradually, Tom soothed beneath her touch; his posture slowly relaxed, and the rest of the room took a collective breath as he let out a sharp burst of laughter, finally recognizing the value of the path that Hermione had cleared.

"What would I do without you?" Tom asked, brushing his lips against her knuckles, and Hermione fought a smile of triumph.

"Lucky you'll never have to find out," she replied.

She was not safe yet, though; she had not quite won. She could see the game clearly, and the players, too, and she had seen in Harry's eyes that even as he ran - even as he willingly gave up everything - that the oath that he'd made would cost him still more.

It would cost him  _everything_ , in fact; because Hermione knew in her heart he would break it.

But it would be a long time before anyone ever doubted her again, and for now, she'd bought herself the time to plan her next move, standing at Tom's side as he told his nobles what had transpired.

"Poliakoff and Krum have fled our court, returning to their lands in disgrace and ruin, and Olympe will pay for the mess she made of our diplomacy. The Duke of Grimmauld is a traitor and an adulterer," Tom announced to his Loyalists, "and what the Peverells possessed will now belong, again, to us. And as for the Queen - " his mouth tightened, twitching, before he glanced at Hermione. "We have a far better one," he announced, and the other nobles obediently raised their glasses, toasting her from afar.

Hermione glanced up, catching Draco's eye as he lifted his goblet to the most perfunctory of heights, and she passed her tongue slowly over her lips, rising to her feet with a smile.

"My Lord Malfoy," she called, walking over to him and delighting in the way he bent his too-proud spine to bow to her. "Are you in want of new lands?" she asked. "It appears Grimmauld will need a keeper."

He seemed stunned for a moment, pausing before answering, but ultimately permitted a nod.

"Grimmauld belongs in part to my family, My Lady," he replied, with evident sincerity. "I can think of no better steward, should the King wish it."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Tom, who nodded.

"Then they're yours," Hermione said, prompting a rise of murmurs around the room. "And as the new Duke of Grimmauld," she continued, quieting the crowd, "you will leave immediately to claim them."

At that, silence fell around the room, washing over them in a mournful wave. Every noble turned to stare, disbelieving, as Hermione waited for a reaction, half wanting to laugh at the rigid refusal that settled between Draco Malfoy's shoulders.

"Unless you object, of course," she murmured facetiously, and he could not prevent a furtive glare at her, his mouth contorting.

"Was this your plan?" he asked, so quietly that no one but Hermione could hear him speaking; so carefully that his lips barely moved. "Destroy the Queen, take her place, and banish me from court, all in one fell swoop?"

Hermione permitted a smile; an indulgent, humoring one, as if he'd told a clever joke.

"You may leave at once, Your Grace," she said loudly, and then, dropping her voice, she leaned towards him, hovering near his ear as he forced another unwilling bow. "You look so fine at my mercy, Draco," she whispered to him, watching his hands tremble with fury, and then she turned to Tom, aiming herself towards him with a slow, deliberate stride as he held out his hand expectantly for hers.

"My Lady," Tom said, tucking her hand under his arm.

She smiled again, beatifically this time; a victor's smile. The images that persisted in her head -  _a blinding glimmer of chaos, of intertwining strands of light, passion and blood and bone, a sky that rages_ \- were easily cast aside in favor of this moment; in favor of the incalculable sweetness of having effortlessly silenced a room to awe.

"My King," she replied, and gloried in the looks of fear that settled at her back.


	16. Myths and Legends

**Chapter 16: Myths and Legends**

The journey from the castle was long and arduous, and they didn't dare pause anywhere within a day's ride; instead they pushed the horse as hard and as far as it would go, not stopping until they reached a village that did not yet have Tom's guards crawling through it. There was a single inn off the main road; Harry murmured over his shoulder to Pansy that it was still a gamble, but they both needed rest and food badly. She could feel the weariness radiating from his back, the shallow strain of each breath, and knew it was only by fortune's favor that they'd made it that far.

She climbed down from the saddle stiffly, her joints aching, and he took her hand carefully, pulling her close to speak in her ear.

"Keep your hood over your face," he warned, resting his hand protectively against the small of her back. "Your likeness has been painted countless times, and by now word will have spread that you're missing - "

"But what about you?" she whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder; it was hard not to imagine that any given moment could contain a trap. "Harry - "

"If anything happens," he exhaled, taking her face in his hands, "you run. Don't wait for me. Do you understand?"

"Harry, what are you talking ab-"

"Just keep your hood down," he instructed again, and took her hand, shielding her against his chest as he pulled open the door to the inn, nodding to the single man who stood behind the bar. "Excuse me," Harry offered to the man, shielding Pansy from view. "Who might I speak to about getting a room for the night?"

"Tha'll be me," the man replied, "and if you're needin' an ale as well, tha'll be me also."

"Just the room for now, thanks," Harry returned. Rather than answer right away, though, the man picked up the glass he had been polishing, eyeing it briefly in the light.

"Where're you two comin' from?" he asked casually, and Pansy watched an apprehensive stiffness manifest up Harry's spine, drifting rigidly to his shoulders. "Haven' heard any news from the castle, have ye?"

Pansy swallowed, struggling to restrain her nerves as Harry forced a smile, making an effort to appear at ease.

"Has there been something newsworthy?" he ventured neutrally, and the man set the glass down to meet Harry's eye, ominously half-smiling.

"They say the Queen's run off with the Duke of Grimmauld," the man commented, and Pansy held her breath, trying not to give herself away with even the slightest movement. "They were plottin' agains' His Majesty, they say. As a matter of fact, they're sayin' the King's offerin' quite a fortune to anyone who's go' any news of their whereabouts. People been avoidin' this road because of it, which maybe you wouldn' know, havin' been _travelin_ ', I'm sure." He paused, waiting, and then gave them a furtive, dangerous smile. "'Course, anyone who says anythin' is surely sendin' the two of 'em off to a traitor's death, which would be an outrigh' shame. But, then again," he added slyly, "we've all go' to put food on the table, don' we?"

"We're just travelers," Harry lied quickly. "We've been riding for several days. Haven't heard anything about any of this."

"Mmhm, 'course not. But just think," the man mused, "if I were to get a message to the King's guard 'bout a man who talks like a fancy noble, and a strange woman who's go' her hood pulled over her face, how long d'you think it'd take 'em to catch ye? Maybe an hour? Maybe less?" he chuckled quietly, shaking his head, and Pansy grimaced, registering that Harry's instincts had been correct; this was a bigger gamble than she'd initially feared. "They're the best riders in the whole kingdom, aren' they? And on fresh horses, too. Whereas _you_ look like you've been ridin' non-stop for at _least_ \- "

"So what do you want, then?" Harry cut in sharply, his mouth tightening, and Pansy fought to still her racing pulse, dragging her panicked mind to necessary calculation as he gestured to the door, signaling for her to leave. "Obviously your silence has a price."

"Ah, as does everythin'," the man replied sagely, quirking a brow as Pansy attempted a careful step back, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet. "But today it's go' to be a Queen's ransom, doesn' it?"

Harry stiffened, his hand curling angrily to a fist. Pansy, knowing there was no leaving him, put a hand on his arm to stop him from doing anything reckless, carefully reaching under her hood.

"Here," she said to the man, removing one of her earrings and setting it down on the bar. "Emeralds," she informed him flatly, "inlaid in gold, with diamonds on the side. Yours," she promised with a grimace, "if you say nothing and let us leave."

"Oh, I'll say nothin'," the man agreed, nodding curtly to her as he picked up the earring, "but ye'd be stupid to leave. Next inn's abou' a five hour ride, an' I don' think you've go' it in you, do ye?"

Harry and Pansy exchanged a weary glance, knowing he was right.

"How much for the room, then?" Pansy prompted brusquely, and the man held up the earring, pointedly scrutinizing it.

"Not worth much without its mate, eh?" he asked, sparing her a revolting grin, and she removed her other earring with a grimace, shoving it in his waiting palm. He closed his hand around the jewelry, nodding his smug satisfaction, and dug a key out from under the bar, tossing the ring to Harry. "Well, there ye go, then," he said merrily. "I reckon ye'll know how to tend your own fire, bein' jus' a pair of innocen' travelers an' all?"

Harry's mouth tightened and Pansy gripped his arm, shaking her head warningly, before prompting him up the stairs.

"Have a lovely evenin', Mister and Missus Earring!" the man called gleefully after them, mockingly bowing low as they took the narrow stairs up to the dingy second floor.

Harry slipped the key into the lock and immediately grimaced, ushering Pansy in first; she could see well enough upon entry what had caused the disruption of his features. The room was clean, at least, and relatively well-kept, though it was markedly bare of much other than a small table and a narrow bed. The entire space accounted for perhaps a fifth of the size of her bedroom in the castle. The fireplace was, as the innkeeper had suggested, untended; Harry bent towards it, gathering some of the sparse bits of dampened wood as Pansy fought an unexpected chill, finding the night air suddenly unbearably cold.

She watched the former Duke of Grimmauld drop to his knees, soot and ash instantly clinging to his clothes, and felt she understood what had settled so miserably into her bones. Not regret, but something hauntingly like it; something _very_ like it. Guilt, perhaps. A loss, too, and the harsh blow of an unknown future, of finery and privilege torn to shreds and set to smolder into nothing, both of them brought low.

She had said she would trade everything for him, hadn't she? Her jewels, her title, her crown. She'd said she would trade it all - would have risked it, all of it, all for him - and now she had, though she hadn't realized how literally those words would manifest. Her hand helplessly rose to her ears, feeling the strange weightlessness there now.

She watched, too, as Harry bent over the fireplace, patiently coaxing flames from a wispy bit of smoke. They'd both left in only what they'd been wearing, and while she'd had the miraculous foresight to put a cloak over her shift before venturing down to see him, he had been left with next to nothing; she could see the muscle in his back through the thin material of his shirt, and it occurred to her for the first time - watching the coiled motion of him, rib by rib, each wiry strand of muscle shifting, straining, stiffening - exactly what she had done.

She realized, painfully, what she had taken from him, and shuddered beneath the many hardships she might still cause.

"I'll try to get a message to Ron tonight," Harry said eventually, warming his hands against the tepidly dancing fire before rising to his feet, looking absently into the flames. "It may cost me to do it securely, but I think we'll need his help if we're going to get out of here safely. Especially with Tom's guards on the roads - "

Pansy swallowed hard, tasting danger again, and choked on the bitterness of their misfortune.

"Here," she blurted desperately, startling Harry towards her as she took off her cloak, thrusting it into his hands. "This has to be worth something. And - " she paused, her hands shaking, as she carefully removed each of her rings; the gold wedding band, the set of Borderland emeralds, the signet ring she wore bearing her family's crest. "Take these," she said, grabbing his hand and pressing them into his palm, "these are gold, and - "

"Pansy," Harry croaked, his expression pained, but she ignored him, hastily ridding herself of everything she still undeservedly possessed.

"This, too," she said, pulling her shift over her head and shoving it in his hands. "This is silk, barely worn, and - "

"Pansy," Harry said again, his eyes widening. "Pansy, please don't - "

"And these," she said, fiddling with her hair until it fell loose down her back. "These pins are gold as well, and maybe it's not much but it's something, it's - it's something - it's something I can do, and maybe it will - maybe that can - "

She trailed off, shivering now as she stood bare before him, and he stared at her for a few long, breathless moments, contemplating her where she stood.

"Your Majesty," he finally said, taking a step, and she flinched; shuddered so violently she felt she'd been struck by the words, holding her arms out as if she could somehow physically keep him from the toxicity of his error in choosing her.

"I'm not a Queen any longer," she reminded him bluntly. "I'm not even a Lady, surely. Tom will have taken my birthright from me by now, and yours from you. I'm not Majesty, you're not Grace, we're nothing, either of us. We're just Pansy, just Harry, and - and - "

She trailed off, stammering, and stumbled back; Harry, meanwhile, let out a contemplative sigh, regarding her a moment before turning to the table at his side.

"Do you think I ever required more from you than just Pansy?" he asked, carefully setting her garments and jewelry down and facing her. "Or that I ever wanted you to see me as anything other than just Harry?"

She shut her eyes, taking a few frantic breaths.

"This is my fault," she whispered, shivering. "I thought I would keep you safe, that by getting you out I could save us both, but - "

"But you couldn't leave me," he supplied as she faltered, and she looked up, pained. "You couldn't leave me, I couldn't leave you, and I thank my stars for that, Pansy," he promised, stepping towards her. "Maybe you see that as a mistake, but I thank every divinity, every blessing, every thread of my fate that you put your faith in me - "

"Harry," she whispered desperately, unable to bear his certainty, and he closed the distance between them.

He took her in his arms; slowly, first, and then inescapably, the way a storm creeps in overhead. His hands traveled slowly over the blades of her shoulders, venturing carefully down her spine, and rested with beatific surety around her waist, his breath warm against her neck.

"It won't be easy," he told her. "Many things will be harder now, my Queen - "

"Stop," she begged, closing her eyes. "Harry, don't - "

" - but you are still precisely what you have always been to me," he continued firmly, his fingers tightening in the loose waves in her hair. "It will be difficult to survive, fine, but it was difficult before. It was _impossible_ before, Pansy, watching you belong to someone else." He leaned back, staring down at her, and she looked back at the brilliant green of his eyes; at the view of him that had chased down every hopeless breath in his absence from her. "I have only ever wanted you. Crown on your head or not."

She closed her eyes, still suffering. "But you were born for more than this," she whispered to him. "You were always meant for more, weren't you? I should have known. I should have _known_ ," she repeated, "and now - "

"And now I have everything," he interrupted, taking her face between his palms. "Now I have everything I wanted, everything I needed - and this," he added softly, stroking his thumb along her cheek, "this is the first night of thousands if you'll have me, Pansy. How many times have I asked you - _begged_ you - to be mine? Don't think I've forgotten," he murmured. "Don't think I've forgotten what I would have given to have you, because I've always known it would be everything." He bent his forehead to hers, shaking his head as he slid his hands through her hair, grasping it in his fingers. "How can you question this, Pansy? I've always known there was nothing I couldn't stand to lose if it meant I could be with you."

"But it was different, wasn't it," she sighed into his shoulder, her fingers gripping possessively at the angles of his hips. "It was just playing pretend before, it was all an indulgent fantasy, but now - "

"But now," he assured her, "now, at last, we can have a future, if you'll allow it." He backed her towards the bed, carefully guiding her onto it, and dropped to kiss his way down her stomach, brushing his lips against the inside of her thigh. "Will you have me, my Queen?" he asked, glancing up at her. "Now that you are free to choose."

For a moment, she froze, realizing what he gave her.

His offer - _choice_ , though it was hardly one at all, given the circumstances - was perhaps the only one she'd ever been presented on her own terms.

He was no King chosen by her father, no husband forcing his way into her rooms. No lord to be entertained for political leverage. No man to rule her, not like all the other men before.

He was nothing if she did not want him; he'd made that clear enough.

He was Harry, only Harry, and only hers, and all she had to say was -

"Yes," she whispered, without any frailty of doubt.

When he took her in his arms and kissed her, she tore through her memories and replaced them, one by one. Where there had once been Tom and the strike of him, the violence of his will and his wants and his weighty betrayals, there was the taste of Harry, the promise of him on the tip of her tongue. For every touch that had once marred her consciousness, scarred her thoughts and chased her to arresting, boundless fear, she made herself new under the pressure of Harry's hands, his lips renewing her to wonder. She made a promise with each motion of her hips, with each nail she dug into his back, each breath she offered up for his consumption. Until now she'd given him nothing, denied him the barest of her truths, so she gave him this night without compromise, without restraint; she clawed her fingers into the back of his neck and held him steady, held him breathless, held him without respite, and when they collapsed together she knew she had never been blessed with luxury like this before.

She'd known opulence a hundred times over, but none like a night in Harry's arms without the threat of his loss in the morning.

"Will you go?" she asked hesitantly, tracing her finger over the shape of the mouth that had kissed her so sweetly, so longingly, so ardently. "To try to reach Ron, I mean."

He brushed his lips against her finger, shaking his head. "Not tonight," he said, drawing her against his chest. "I'd forgotten this was my first night with you as mine, but I won't make that mistake again. Tonight," he promised firmly, tilting his chin down for her kiss, "you will know exactly what you chose when you traded your pretty comforts for my meager promises."

"Oh, but I know it already," she reminded him, the words tendered between his lips. "I ran off with a rogue, and I deserve whatever silly little hardship befalls me for my incomprehensible folly, don't I?"

"Generally inadvisable decision," he agreed, chuckling. "Though the handbook quite clearly states I'm beholden to you for it, and will have to make the tragedy of such flawed judgment firmly worth your while."

She gave a sleepy half-smile, letting him play with the tips of her fingers.

"What are you, besides a rogue?" she asked him. "Besides a terrible, clever, impossible rogue."

"A traitor," he supplied easily, with a faint degree of bitterness. He concealed it quickly, though, stroking her cheek and smiling. "We make quite a story, you know," he remarked, changing the subject. "A beautiful Queen running from certain death to be with her husband's enemy - and the challenger to his throne, at that."

"If only you'd aimed for lesser pursuits," she commented, half-joking, but Harry sobered, delivered instead to furrowed silence.

She waited, saying nothing, and eventually his lips curled up, speech poised hesitantly on his tongue.

"You know," he began, as carefully as if he were venturing the start of a children's tale, "Tom and I were both raised away from court."

"Were you?" she asked, realizing she knew very little about his history, and he nodded.

"My father was the single Peverell heir, chosen as the successor to an aged and heirless King," he explained. "But he married beneath his station, which never sat well with the Loyalists."

"Loyalists?" Pansy echoed, frowning. "I thought they were loyal to Tom."

Harry shook his head. "They're loyal to a certain pedigree. A certain style of kingship," he clarified, and his expression darkened. "They support the type of King, for example, who would destroy others to take the throne."

She swallowed, chewing her lip. "Something happened to your father," she predicted knowingly, and Harry nodded.

"The cost of being born with Peverell blood," Harry returned carefully, "is being painted a target from birth. My father knew it, and he knew he was in danger, so he sent me to live with someone he trusted - my godfather, the Duke of Grimmauld," he clarified, "who raised me and named me as his heir in the absence of his own sons. My father was killed when I was still a child," he pronounced flatly, "and my mother, too."

Pansy paused, catching the sorrow in his eyes; but her mind snagged on an unexpected feature of his story, and she opened her mouth, hesitating.

"Your birthright," she ventured carefully, frowning. "What were you born to as a Peverell, if not the title of Grimmauld?"

Harry grimaced, not quite looking at her.

"Prince of Diagon," he said, and she held her breath, unsure why she'd never heard such a thing. "Your father is a Loyalist," he reminded her, catching the look on her face and nodding, unsurprised. "I doubt your family would ever have recognized me as a royal heir, and besides, it is always the right of the victor to rewrite history. Tom had to be sure that any doubt of his kingship would never spread."

"Can that really be done?" she asked, gaping, and he shrugged.

"There is no underestimating Tom - not as a man, not as a King, and certainly not as living lore," Harry replied. "Nobody knows where he was raised, you know. Nobody knows who he was before he took the throne. They say he died before, actually. That he came back, somehow, regained his youth, and lived again." He paused, curling a hand thoughtfully around his mouth. "They say it's why he's obsessed with living forever," he added, though he didn't elaborate, and Pansy drew herself up, glancing down at him.

"Do you think that's true?" she asked, and Harry matched himself with her, propping his head up on his elbow.

"No," he admitted. "I simply think he's a man who feels his life was given meaning by something that should have destroyed him and didn't, and he can't stop until he attains whatever he's left fighting for. Power, I suppose," he guessed. "Autonomy."

Pansy paused before replying, hearing something like understanding in his voice; sympathy, almost, as if in that single instance, he understood what so relentlessly drove the man who had been his rival.

"What about you, then?" she asked, and Harry looked up, bemused. "What are you still fighting for?" she clarified, and he tilted his head, thinking.

"I suppose," he began slowly, "I just want to put someone worthy on my father's throne. To avenge him, in a way, though I don't think he would want that to be my sole purpose. I think - "

He faltered, hesitating, and Pansy brushed his hair from his forehead, comforting him with a touch as his eyelids fluttered shut and reopened.

"I don't know what actually happened to my father," Harry admitted. "Tom might have been too young to kill him himself, and plenty who rallied behind the Gaunts would have wanted my father dead. But I was there to see what Tom did to all the others," he confessed darkly. "When he took the throne, he killed every dissenting noble, one by one, without hesitation. Without remorse. He killed my godfather," he gritted out, swallowing hard on anguish. "All of my father's friends and allies, too."

 _You think you're the only person Tom's hurt?_ she heard him say to her, and suffered a wave of shame, realizing now what he'd meant.

"You lived, though," she said softly, and he nodded, looking pained by the thought.

"I think he'd have wanted to kill me - still does, clearly - but something has always stood in his way," he said. "Perhaps because such a crime would be difficult to hide, and Peverell blood too rare and too valuable to spill without cause. Or maybe he did try," he suggested, "and maybe he failed, and since I wasn't particularly a threat as a peripheral noble from a northern territory - "

"Though you were," Pansy cut in solemnly, and thought, _and perhaps you still are._

As if he could hear the echo of her thoughts, Harry pulled her closer, threading her leg through his.

"People have rallied behind me since I was a boy too young to understand why," he explained quietly, looking impossibly far away. "I thought it was a curse until I realized it was a duty, an obligation. You asked me what my birthright is, and I know what you mean by the question," he added, frowning, "but I don't see it as a plot of land, or as a title. I understand now that my inheritance from my father has always been hope, and _that_ ," he exhaled, "intangible as it may be, is what I think my birthright truly is."

She nodded mutely, unsure what to say - unsure how to express any thought of equal merit, of such unshakable magnitude - and he paused again, looking down, and tightened his arms around her.

"I was impossibly selfish to endanger you," he said eventually. "You were right, Pansy. I am never the one to suffer. It's the ones I love who pay the price of my blood, of the threat I pose to Tom merely by breathing, by existing - "

"By being a legend, just as Tom is," Pansy murmured, tilting her head up to look at him. "You're the stuff of myths, aren't you?"

"I'm just a rogue," he told her, half-smiling. "A rogue who stole a beautiful Queen from an unworthy King, from a tyrant who smiled falsely from an ancient throne - "

"A rogue, and a rightful King," she realized, pulling away. "And you can never stop, can you? You can't stop," she knew, awed in spite of herself, "until you attain what you're fighting for."

He sat upright, eyeing her carefully, and battled his own need to speak.

"Do you understand?" he asked slowly, his entire body tensed with concern. "What you're saying, do you understand the reality of it? The danger of it? Because it will cost us, both of us, and I would never jeopardize you, Pansy. On my life, I swear, I would never put you in danger, but - "

But it was clear now, she thought.

This, too, was a choice, and one that he'd laid at her feet.

"But you can't stop," she said, "and because I am yours, neither can I."

He leaned towards her, hastily drawing her lips to his; a breath of gratitude, of beatitude, escaped from his mouth to hers as he clung to her, holding her close.

"What now, then?" she asked him, and when he pulled away, she saw what he was born to be.

She saw the myth of him, the man and the legend.

"We have to go back to Grimmauld," he said, and she closed her eyes, smoothing the folds of apprehension from her mind and replacing them with him, and the feel of his certainty beneath her touch.

"Then we're going to Grimmauld," she replied, pressing a dauntless kiss to the palm of his hand.

* * *

Hermione woke in the morning to find Tom staring out his window, contemplating something in silence. She watched the lines of muscle carved into his back, the power that seemed to pulse from his spine; she sat up, about to speak, and he turned, shaking his head.

"Go back to how you were," he beckoned, his blue eyes glinting as he looked at her. "Don't get up on my behalf."

She obliged him, rolling onto her stomach and stretching her arms above her head, propping herself up on her elbows.

"You're restless," she noted, and his lips twitched slightly as he spared her another long glance. "What could an uncontested King have on his mind, I wonder?"

"My guards say they have seen nothing," he commented. "No signs of either Harry or Pansy."

"Nor will there be," Hermione reminded him. "They'd be fools to show themselves, and anyone else an even bigger fool to rise up on their behalf. Your reign is more secure than ever, Tom."

"Oh, you misunderstand," he assured her quickly, shaking his head before sitting down beside her, curling the backs of his fingers and drawing his knuckles slowly down the length of her spine. "I'm not worried. I'm simply considering the appropriate passage of time to declare them both effectively dead."

"Dead?" Hermione echoed, angling her chin over her shoulder to look at him. "Why would that be necessary?"

"Well," Tom ventured, kissing the spot between her shoulders, "I find I am once again a King in need of a suitable wife." Hermione stiffened, and he chuckled, one hand curling around her shoulder as he dragged his thumb promisingly down the back of her neck. "Oh, I have an extremely suitable one in mind," he reminded her, replacing his touch with his lips, and she relaxed, resting her cheek against the pillow and closing her eyes.

"Are you going to actually ask me?" she prompted irritably. "Or am I to simply wake up one day with a ring on my finger and call a duty done?"

"Oh, our betrothal will be the very height of excess," he assured her. "I'll romance you like no woman has ever been courted before."

"You're going to war, Tom," she reminded him, though she felt her attention wander the grips of her control as his lips traveled lower, down to the base of her spine. "I hardly think it's worth wasting your treasury on something so clearly inevitable."

"Well, for you, perhaps," he agreed. "But the rest of this country has only seen Pansy's face until now, and they will have only learned of you from stories. So let it be stories of an entranced King, utterly bewitched by your beauty and your wit," he murmured, "and let them fall for you as well, my lioness, and as equally, so that your reign is never doubted."

She frowned, sensing something off amid the coaxing tone of his promise.

"Are you worried my worth will be doubted?" she asked, and he didn't answer right away; instead he slid her legs apart, stroking a thumb against the slit of her cunt. "Tom," she gasped, "what are you - "

"These nobles," he muttered as he slid his fingers underneath her, toying lazily with her clit. "They require a certain amount of showmanship, but they are so effortlessly won. They simply like a King who flexes his power from time to time," he added, crooking a finger inside her, "don't they?"

"Tom," she attempted sternly, though it slipped out in a moan, the sovereignty of his clever fingers diminishing her to distraction. "Tom, I - "

But the rest was lost in a groan, and her momentary apprehension gone with it.

Still, not everyone was so easily occupied.

"What were you thinking?" Severus hissed, catching Hermione's arm as she walked through the castle's corridors. "You let them _go_?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied smoothly, sparing him a momentary glance of barely-managed attention. "I see you're back, by the way," she added without inflection. "About time, too. How was Durmstrang?"

His mouth stiffened. "Bloody."

She shrugged. "Hazards of the profession," she remarked, unperturbed, and continued her procession down the corridor until he cut her off, storming in front of her.

"You let the Peverell heir _go_ ," Severus ventured again. "Never mind the Queen - "

"Interesting how easy that part is," Hermione agreed, rather flippantly. "Candidly, I never do."

"Lady Hermione," Severus protested through gritted teeth, "the Duke of Grimmauld - "

"The Duke of Grimmauld, as you may have heard, is now Draco Malfoy," Hermione cut in firmly. "I understand you've been away, Severus, but you'll have to keep up. Lord Henry has been relieved of his position and a warrant has been issued for his arrest. He's as good as dead, Severus, as is Pansy."

He flinched at the baldly irreverent reference to the deposed queen, but persisted without hesitation.

"You've risen admirably, it's true, but still - you fail to understand this court, Lady Hermione," he told her flatly. "You will never understand that so long as any Peverell son draws breath, he will always be a threat to a Gaunt King's reign. There will _always_ be dissent, there will _always_ be nobles who seek power and ambition - "

"And they will not be led by Harry," Hermione supplied simply. "Believe me, his influence is finished."

But Severus didn't look convinced.

"You should have killed him," Severus said blankly. "You should have killed them both. You and I both know you could have, and now this entire kingdom is poised for civil war if he ever materializes again - "

"Diagon was _always_ poised for civil war," Hermione snapped in return, irritated, "and that has now been remedied. Harry was the one raising troops with the Weasleys, with Queen Olympe's support, and the extent of his treason is well beyond any favorable doubt. War was always inevitable, but now, in his name, it is an impossibility - "

"You are short-sighted," Severus accused, cutting her off. "You forget that neither you nor the King will be able to hold the throne forever. What will happen if Harry and Pansy have a son?" he pressed, and Hermione caught a glimpse of a very real fear in his eyes. "What if they produce an _heir_ , and one who is not only a Peverell but a _Parkinson_ , and thus born of not just a royal line but an ancient, noble one, too? A son who would have more claim to Tom's throne than Tom himself possesses - and more claim," he added, dropping to a whisper, "than you could possibly give to any heir _you_ bore?"

Hermione's mouth tightened. "I am more than the value of my blood," she reminded him, struggling not to suffer the still-unpleasant slight against her birth, but Severus shook his head.

"No, you aren't, and this you continuously fail to understand," he pronounced flatly. "It is one thing to plot for the Queen's throne, but quite another to fail to remove the threat of her outright. Already the nobles are uneasy," he added, glancing pointedly over his shoulder. "They will pressure Tom into naming a successor, and the moment that he does, anyone he angers - anyone he casts aside or who suffers any insult or injury at his hands - will gladly rally behind the second in line to the throne. It _was_ Harry," he warned, "who even at his most dangerous had a sense of honor to him, at least. Who will it be now? Lucius Malfoy, who would turn on his own allies for power? His son, even, who would surely do the same?"

"There's no need for Tom to appoint a successor now," Hermione scoffed, though she fought a shiver of discomfort at the prospect of Draco grasping for power. "There's no conceivable threat to his life, whether Harry has an heir or not. Your King is healthy and strong and essentially invincible, and - "

"And he is poised to fight a _war_ ," Severus reminded her bluntly. "No man is ever truly invulnerable, and even if he were, someone would still have to be appointed regent while he's away. _Someone_ will run the affairs of the state, and then you will be putting both power and treasury into the hands of a noble, any noble, who would no doubt stand against you the moment Tom's back was turned. Not to mention that if there is even a _rumor_ of the Qu-" he broke off, catching her darkened look of fury. "If there is even a rumor - a _whisper_ \- that Pansy might be carrying another Peverell son - "

"Imaginary threats," Hermione muttered. "I don't need you to fill my head with them; I have enough to deal with without your imagination running away with itself, Severus."

But he would not relent.

"You let them go," Severus accused again, his mouth a thin, inarguable line. "You let them _go_ , and yet you seem certain you aren't in danger. Why? How can you possibly believe such a thing?"

"I - " she began, and stopped, infuriated by his doubt. "I have my reasons," she snapped, "and I find I don't care for your methods, Severus. There are more ways to keep a kingdom than by simply killing off those who vie for it - "

"Do you even know the man whose throne you've fought to keep?" Severus hissed, dropping his voice. "Do you understand the man that you've aligned yourself with? Because Tom knows - as _every_ King in his position has known - that the only way to remove a threat is to sever it," he informed her flatly. "Blood will be spilled for this mistake, Lady Hermione, somewhere along the line. Perhaps you believe you've spared two lives, but how many more will you cost?"

"If we cannot hold Tom's throne without murdering for it, then we are fools who don't deserve to possess it," she retorted bitterly. "Does savagery run in noble blood? Is that the true value of it? Do Loyalists not face judgment for their crimes simply because they're born with silver spoons and titles?"

"You will never understand," Severus said again, folding his arms across his chest. "You cannot understand a world that you were never born to occupy, and you will always exist in its periphery - "

"Actually, it seems that I already understand many things better than you do, Severus," she spat, furious. "Like your job, for instance. Unless I'm mistaken, isn't it to serve the King?" she demanded, and his mouth parted to retort, but she shook her head, unwilling to hear it.

"So serve him, then," she snapped, and stormed away, heading for the Great Hall.

Severus' haughty insertion into her idyllic victory over Pansy, Harry, and - to a lesser extent - Draco was an unpleasant contribution to an otherwise promising aftermath; with the Queen's reputation tainted and the woman herself deposed, attention to Hermione had evolved to a nearly passable imitation of favorable.

Still, she knew it wasn't quite enough to ensure her position, and it seemed Tom knew as much, too. The nobles didn't genuinely care for her, and Tom's attempt to shower her in finery felt more like an aimless attempt at catching smoke between her fingers.

She would have to dispel rumors, to quiet opposition, and if Tom could not manage it -

Once again, necessity fell to her.

It would take more than a small amount of effort, and she pored over the less-patronizing realities of Severus' warnings as she walked, contemplating the steps she'd have to take to justify her decision to let Harry and Pansy go. She would need Rabastan's ears, and perhaps Daphne's as well; she badly needed Loyalist support, and both were reasonably useful.

She was so intently absorbed in thought that she might not have noticed her entry to the Great Hall if there hadn't been an instant, stifled commotion. At first she thought that the outburst might have been on her behalf and she stiffened apprehensively, glancing around reflexively for the source; it was quite clear, though, that something unrelated had happened, the source of panic centered around one of the tables closest to the head of the room.

"What's happened?" she announced, waiting for an explanation, and several eyes snapped towards her; a handful of the Tom's Loyalist nobles respectfully bent their heads, clearing a path for her to proceed.

"Lady Hermione," Lucius ventured, materializing hurriedly at her side and carefully placing a warning hand on her arm, "I wouldn't come any closer. Given your delicate sensibilities - "

"I'll guard my sensibilities myself, Lord Malfoy," she replied sourly, her brow furrowing. "What is it?"

He hesitated, and then bowed, still attempting to keep her back.

"Lord Rabastan Lestrange," he began tentatively, and then grimaced, seeing that everyone in the room now looked to him for explanation. "It appears he has been - " he faltered, his hand rising to curve around his mouth. "Apologies, my Lady, but it seems that Lord Lestrange has been murdered."

"What?" Hermione asked, gasping, and the other nobles looked away, the ladies at the fringes of the room raising her hands to their mouths in alarm. "How?"

"Poison, it appears," Pettigrew contributed nervously, stumbling back as she took several quick steps forward, seeing Rabastan slumped over the wood of the table. "This cup was brought for him, My Lady, and - "

"Give me that," she snapped, and glanced at it, sniffing its contents; there was nothing noticeably off, but the cup was not the castle's standard. There had been intention here, she thought, looking over the unfamiliar design. This was no mistake.

For a moment, she froze, noting the particular timing of the events. The loss of her spy was a crushing one, and a symptom of something much more dangerous, particularly now that she needed him most. No one could know what Rabastan meant for her foothold at court; no one could have possibly found him a threat on his own, either, without knowing what value he was to her. It was no accident, and no one could have targeted Rabastan without targeting her.

 _No one could have known_ , she thought, _except -_

"Who did this?" she demanded, refusing to let her suspicions wander without proof.

"Nobody saw it," Pettigrew contributed hastily, his beady eyes darting from Mulciber, who stared down in disbelief at Rabastan's unmoving form, to Lucius, who stood speechless at Hermione's side. "Nobody saw anything, My Lady - "

Hermione looked down at the cup again, eyeing it in her hand; she tapped the bottom of it, sensing something strange about its appearance, and noted a hollow sound, hurriedly disguising her recognition.

"Somebody tell the King that one of his Loyalists has been poisoned," she commanded abruptly, turning to Pettigrew and attempting to conceal the furious tremor of her hand. "Bring Severus to - to take care of this, and - "

"Yes, Lady Hermione," Pettigrew assured her, and she turned away with as much authority as she could manage, discreetly tucking the cup in the folds of her skirt as she headed down the corridor, heart pounding.

"Lady Hermione," Daphne called, frowning as Hermione nearly barreled into her, still unsure where to go; _not to Tom_ , she thought, sensing trouble, _not yet_. "What is it? I'd heard there was some sort of commotion in the Great Hall, and - " Daphne paused, frowning. "Hermione, my god, you're pale as a ghost - "

"Come here," Hermione hissed quietly, pulling Daphne into an alcove, and turned the cup over in her hands, removing the thin layer of metal that she had rightfully suspected concealed a narrow compartment. "Rabastan is dead," she whispered, and didn't need to look up to know that Daphne's eyes had widened with dismay. "This is the cup he was poisoned with."

"Poison?" Daphne echoed anxiously, her hand resting on her stomach. "But who would - " She broke off, frowning, and eyed the cup in Hermione's hand. "Is that - "

"There's a note," Hermione confirmed, and slid a scrap of parchment from inside the cup, shakily unfurling it.

"Do you know who wrote it?" Daphne asked, breathless, and Hermione grimaced; the handwriting was unfamiliar, but the moment she read its contents, she knew with a visceral blow who had been responsible for the death of her only useful ally at court.

"Yes," she said, gritting her teeth, and stared down at the narrow script.

_So that you would be humbled._


	17. Two Faces

**Chapter 17: Two Faces**

_Women are meant to see between spaces; to see what isn't there, and to know what's still to come._

_Women have their own spheres, their own courts, their own muses. Women hear whispers and hum truths under their breaths. They spin lies and threats and ingest them like honey; let them sweeten like sins on the tips of their tongues. To be a woman and survive is to wear a mask; to be at once a promise and a falsehood; to be soft enough to comfort, to build solace from nothing; and yet to be so firm and strong and jagged that she cannot possibly break._

_A woman may walk in a man's world and never truly enter it. She may rule in a man's life and never truly rule herself. She may share a man's responsibilities, she may stand at his side in his triumphs and anguish, but still, she is a creature all her own, and she is beholden to the little magicks of her kind._

_Women are meant to see between spaces._

_They see what isn't there, and always, they see what's still to come._

* * *

"Something is bothering you," Daphne observed quietly, one hand resting on her swollen belly.

Hermione didn't reply.

"May I sit?" Daphne asked, and Hermione's gaze slid slowly to hers, a strange sensation of objection lingering against the cavern of her mouth. There was a time when she would have resented having to do the asking, and in turn, would have expected to receive it as her due; but here, under these circumstances, it suddenly seemed like too much effort to submit to the usual courtly dance.

"You outrank me," Hermione reminded her. "I'm not Queen. I'm not anything. You can do whatever you like."

Daphne opened her mouth, hesitating a moment, and carefully cleared her throat.

"You know, when Pansy first came here, I told her that I would be like a sister to her," Daphne said slowly. "She was friendless and frightened. Now you are friendless, I think, and more frightened than you care to admit." She paused. "I would be a sister to you as well," she offered, and Hermione blinked.

"But your loyalty is to Pansy," Hermione said, and Daphne shrugged, consenting to take the seat beside her without prompting.

"It is hard to be a woman at this court," Daphne replied. "It is harder still, I imagine, to be a woman alone."

"Is it much easier," Hermione mused in return, "being a beautiful woman who is loved by her husband and her peers, as you are?"

"Yes," Daphne said easily, and Hermione found herself oddly relieved that she had not bothered to lie. "Yes, I'm quite lucky, I think. But you are not really unloved, are you? Not as Pansy was," she murmured pointedly, catching Hermione's flinch at the reminder of what she had caused. "You are driven by something other than duty, I suspect, so now something other than duty plagues you, doesn't it?"

Hermione didn't answer at first, gauging the truth of Daphne's intent. It was hard to imagine there wasn't venom somewhere beneath the other woman's flawless veneer; some poison that was hidden out of sight, or some teeth, Hermione privately assumed, striking from motives she couldn't quite see.

"You're very smart, aren't you, Lady Nott?" Hermione noted instead, turning towards her. "No wonder Pansy rarely misstepped. She would have been rather well-informed with you at her side."

Daphne smiled. "Well, Pansy is very smart, too." She paused. "Was," she amended, staring briefly out onto the castle grounds and dutifully adopting Tom's version of history: that his one-time wife and Queen was effectively dead. "Pansy  _was_  very smart."

Hermione hesitated again.

"The King is growing increasingly concerned that they still haven't been found," she ventured after a moment's pause, and Daphne nodded, as Hermione had suspected she would.

"I would expect as much," Daphne confirmed. "As a man who forcibly took the throne, the King will always fear the unknown. He will always consider the possibility that elsewhere, in somewhere he cannot see, others are plotting against him." She turned her head, eyeing Hermione. "A natural suspicion," she added, "when one is forced to surround oneself with deceit."

"I think he's threatened by the heir that they could have," Hermione remarked, and found herself laughing inwardly, shaken slightly by a moment of utter absurdity. "And now, so am I - which is funny, because I have never believed in ghosts or tales of creatures," she murmured, "and yet I have never been so afraid of a child that does not exist."

Daphne's hand floated protectively over her stomach. "That fear is far more real than any tales of ghosts. In fact, I sometimes wonder if the King can't stand to look at me," she confessed. "Sometimes I feel as if he suspects me of growing the man who might one day challenge him, and I'm afraid I cannot promise that he is wrong."

"There is quite a bit of fear lately at court," Hermione admitted. "With the Durmstrang betrayal, and the loss of Lord Henry, and with Lord Lestrange murdered - "

She trailed off, and Daphne placed a hand comfortingly on her shoulder.

"It isn't really the King's succession that concerns you," Daphne murmured, "is it?"

Hermione blinked.

"Who was it?" Daphne pressed. "The note in the goblet. I saw your face," she added, looking concerned. "It was written for your eyes, wasn't it?"

 _Tell me the truth,_  Hermione heard herself say, and heard Draco Malfoy's answer.

_That you would be humbled._

Hermione bit hard on her lip, determining how much to reveal. "It was," she confessed. "But I don't think I should tell you who it was from," she added, and Daphne gave a low, breathy laugh, shaking her head.

"Do you fear I will challenge you, somehow?" Daphne asked, looking amused by the prospect. "I'm afraid I have no particular need for the King's attention. I would advise you to keep an eye to Lavender, perhaps, if you're needing to exercise caution," she suggested with a shrug, "or even Hannah, whose father would likely bully her into flirting for favors - "

"It's not the pretty ones I would expect to worry about," Hermione cut in firmly. "It's the clever ones. The ones he can use. Which is, I suppose, a thief's fear," she added, with another absurd strike of irony. "That the very things I have taken will one day be stolen from me."

"Well, it would be very foolish of you to think otherwise," Daphne assured her. "Every day at court is a war. Each battle must be won, and your footing isn't yet secure. You will have to get the crown on your head before you ever feel safe, and even then - "

She gestured around the room, to the quarters that had once belonged to another woman.

To the jewels, to the grandeur, and to the privileges that once - and not so long ago - another woman had rightfully owned.

Hermione sighed.

"It's a man who worries me, actually," she finally admitted, and Daphne arched a brow. "The one who killed Lord Lestrange, I mean. It's not a woman I worry about, nor any challenger for Tom's bed; it's a noble. A noble that I worry will try to take from me once I am crowned. A Queen only has so much power," she admitted, swallowing hard on her reservations, "and once Tom has begun his war, I'm not sure - " She faltered. "I am not sure how to play this game," she confessed, finally giving voice to the thoughts that had plagued her for days. "Pansy knew perfectly how to play it, and yet -" She stumbled again. "And even then, she still didn't manage t-"

"Candidly, Lady Hermione, you underestimate yourself," Daphne cut in firmly. "The King values your insight above all others, doesn't he? The entire court knows this. The King himself may fear the things beyond his control, but you forget - you do not need to play this game as others do. Not even as he does. You never have before," she added pointedly, "so perhaps you should not bother learning now."

"What are you saying, then?" Hermione asked, bemused. "You know perfectly well that nothing I've done has made me any friends at court - "

"Yes, but who needs friends at court?" Daphne scoffed. "The King himself would tell you that a friend in noble's clothing is only a threat lying in wait, wouldn't he? I don't see why you should factor them in now."

"But by that logic, what are you, then?" Hermione prompted. "Are you not a noble yourself? What interest could you possibly have in advising me to act against the other nobles?"

"Have I really advised you to do any such thing?" Daphne countered, shrugging. "I am simply telling you what I see; but that doesn't seem to be such a terrible thing, does it? I see no nobles lying dead at my feet for my negligence. I only wish to offer you comfort, and to be a friend to you, if you'll permit it."

"Fine," Hermione permitted irritably. "Say that I believed you, then, and trusted that you wished me no harm. What would that make you, Lady Nott, amid a court full of serpents?"

For a moment, Daphne delicately chewed her thoughts, idly staring into nothing.

Then she opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, permitting a few more beats of silence.

"If this baby is a girl," Daphne finally ventured, "then I will be bringing my daughter into an exceedingly dangerous world. One where she will be ruled by her father's wishes, and her King's, and eventually - probably earlier than I would like - her husband's. She will be used as a tool, and she will be warned not to trust the women around her who might be prettier, cleverer, or more apt to bend to a powerful man's wishes. She may not have a marriage like mine," Daphne lamented, sighing. "She may be wed to a very old man, to a very cruel man, or simply to a man she does not love or who does not love her, who will not value her, who will cast her aside because he is powerful and she is not. She will carry with her the burden of an influential birth and a battalion of land and treasures and therefore she will be an asset in the right hands, and a threat in the wrong ones. Men will only see her for her name, her blood, or her body. No man will ask her what she thinks, how she feels, what she wants. If she's lucky, perhaps a man will treat her kindly. And if she isn't - "

Daphne swallowed hard, clearing her throat.

"If she isn't," Daphne said quietly, "then I would hope there will be a woman someday to sit beside her and listen, for she will have very little else."

At that, Hermione glanced down, letting Daphne's intent sink into the already exhausted state of her bones.

Then she nodded slowly, barely managing the motion of her head.

"Thank you," she attempted after a moment, and Daphne struggled to rise to her feet, nodding briskly.

"Shall we?" she prompted, gesturing to Hermione's hair, and with a strangely achievable ease, life as normal began again, leaving Hermione to contemplate what she'd been told.

For most of the day she walked in silence, preparing herself for a gamble. There was only one card to play to keep her safe; she could already tell as much. With Rabastan's ears at court gone - and by Draco Malfoy's hand, proving him infuriatingly capable even from afar - she lacked the allies she'd once had. Even Lucius, who had once been so eager for her favor, seemed to recognize that his son's inheritance of Harry's title inherently angled them both considerably higher in the King's esteem. They now controlled not only the Malfoy lands but the Grimmauld ones, and with Draco out of sight and actively acting against her, Hermione had no choice but to try to master the court however she could possibly manage; to counter Draco Malfoy by fortifying her own position.

And to unify any other nobles who might threaten her, she reasoned, under one incontestable reign.

"You need to select a successor, Your Majesty," Mulciber announced again, the same tired refrain since Harry's disappearance as the other lords of Tom's council nodded their agreement around the table. "Your Majesty is going to war, my King, and there must be an heir in place, should anything happen while you're on campaign."

"Do you expect me to die?" Tom asked bluntly, and immediately, Mulciber demurred.

"No, no, of course not, Your Majesty, but it has long been the privy council's obligation to secure the realm, and in your absence - "

"I recognize that I have a number of things to see to before we advance on Beauxbatons," Tom cut in firmly, his gaze slicing sideways to where Hermione sat straight-backed beside him. "I will not leave my court vulnerable, Mulciber. The -" he paused. "The recent change in the circumstances of succession," he determined, resolutely avoiding any mention of Harry's name, "has not deterred my intentions in any way. If anything, we are stronger now, with a Loyalist planted firmly at Grimmauld and a steady foothold in the Borderlands. This council has nothing to worry about."

"But Your Majesty - "

"That's enough for today, I think," Tom announced, his attention pointedly drifting. "We can reconvene tomorrow," he added, as if the prospect itself had already thoroughly annoyed him, "if the council so resolutely requires a decision."

Clearly, no further argument was to be had.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Mulciber exhaled, nodding his head and accepting the very obvious dismissal. "Tomorrow, then."

He turned as Lucius Malfoy rose to his feet, followed by Caleb Avery, and one by one, the nobles slowly began to process out of the chambers. Hermione waited, watching Tom's sharp eyes appraise the other men in the room before his hand shot out towards Severus, holding the other man in place until the doors had closed behind the vacating nobles.

"Severus," Tom said in a low voice. "What do you think?"

Severus cleared his throat, glancing questioningly at Hermione before ultimately determining to proceed.

"Not Malfoy," Severus said bluntly.

"But he has a son," Tom countered, musing aloud. "His line is secure. There would be no in-fighting between Loyalists. If I chose Mulciber or Avery, that would leave Diagon vulnerable," he clarified. "They have no heirs."

"Yes, but it would not be the first time Lucius Malfoy was tempted with a grasp at power for himself," Severus replied. "He was entrusted once and failed you, Majesty, and I beseech you not to make that mistake a second time."

"But Lucius paid for his errors, and dearly," Tom offered in return. "Do you really think he would chance the same result again?"

"Do you?" Severus prompted drily.

Tom grimaced. "You're right. Perhaps Rodolphus?"

"He possesses too much land," Severus said, shaking his head. "He is also easily led astray."

"So who, then? Mulciber?"

"You want someone who is inextricably loyal to you, Majesty. Mulciber is certainly an option, though I have questions about his attachment to Avery. If they were to combine resources and oppose you before you were able to have a son of your own - "

"Perhaps Draco, then?" Tom suggested, and Hermione fought hard not to go rigid with repulsion at the thought. "The Malfoy son, perhaps, who has already proven more useful than the father."

Severus hesitated. "He is a fine young man, but when given the choice between his father's wishes and yours, my King," he suggested slowly, "which do you think the young Lord Malfoy will choose?"

"Hm," Tom murmured to himself, and Hermione reached out, resting her hand carefully on his knee.

"Your Majesty," she suggested. "Perhaps I might be of use?"

"What, and rule my country for me?" Tom asked her, chuckling to himself.

"Yes," she replied stonily, not bothering to conceal her intent, and he blinked, startled.

"Your Majesty," Severus began tepidly, his brow furrowing, and Tom waved him away.

"Later, Severus," he instructed, frowning, and Severus flashed Hermione a warning glare, backing towards the door before stiffly disappearing through it. "What are you suggesting, Hermione?"

She rose to her feet, coming around his chair to place her hands on his shoulders. There was only one chance, she thought, and only one opportunity to make Tom see as she did, so she paused before continuing, taking a few moments to gather her thoughts.

"These nobles," she murmured, deftly shifting the conversation topic. "They cannot truly be trusted, can they?"

"They're all snakes," Tom agreed, shaking his head. "It's exhausting keeping them in line."

"What did Lucius Malfoy do to you?" she asked, and drew a bit of coolness to her touch, gently stroking his temple.

Tom sighed, leaning into her hand. "When I first challenged my predecessor, I chose Lucius to help lead my armies. He did," he grunted, "but he always seemed to me to have kept some resources for himself. His best armies were always late to join us; his best men were the ones kept warm and dry while my own forces suffered in battle. The Peverell heir, James, was already dead by then, and the line of succession disrupted and ripe for the taking. I suspected Lucius was preparing for his own run at the throne if I failed."

Hermione considered that information, frowning in thought. "Do the Malfoys have royal blood?"

"None rivaling the Gaunts - nor even the Peverells," Tom added bitterly, making a face at the name, "but the Malfoy line is certainly noble enough, and combined with the Black name - "

"I see," Hermione acknowledged slowly. "And what did you do, then?"

"Punished him," Tom replied, and Hermione recalled, suddenly, that Lucius Malfoy had long been without a wife. "But even his questionable service is not entirely without its advantages. Truly, the extent of his fear and remorse has made him incredibly useful to me."

"Still, Severus is right," Hermione said firmly, drawing him delicately back to the point. "You should choose someone loyal to you, Tom. Someone whose loyalty cannot be doubted. Someone," she added, twining her fingers with his, "who matches your own power, and who will hold the throne unerringly for you in your absence."

She watched him close his eyes, thinking, and she drew her fingers up again, brushing either side of his forehead.

"Imagine it," she murmured. "Combined, who could ever stand against us?"

She knew he was seeing the future as she had seen it; a snake and a lioness, the glow of a raised crown, a strike of steel against gold,  _passion and blood and bone_  -

"What is it you want from me, Hermione?" Tom asked her, and she leaned forward, placing her lips beside his ear.

"I'm asking you to make me your Queen, Tom," she murmured to him. "Truly your Queen, as Pansy never was to you - "

"My successor, you mean," Tom clarified, his eyes still closed. "Not merely my consort? It has never been done, Hermione."

"No," Hermione confirmed simply. "But you know as well as I do that I'm worth twice any noble on your council."

"Oh, easily," Tom mused, still thinking. "More than all of them combined. But still, they would never accept it - "

"They will accept it if you tell them they must. You are  _King_ ," she reminded him. "You are King without doubt or opposition - a King soon to rule an empire - and your word is law. If you choose me, they will not refuse you. Name me as your successor," she urged him quietly, "and I swear to you, Tom, I will give you the thing you need most in this world."

"You?" he guessed drily, his eyes fluttering open. "My throne? My power?" he tilted his head, teasing her with a slow, calculated smile. "I possess all of them already, don't I?"

Hermione shifted to face him, stepping around the chair to draw his hands to her waist and letting his fingers dig into the bones of her corset before she leaned forward, leaving the imprint of her teeth against her bottom lip.

"Name me as your successor," she invited again, "and I swear to you now, Tom, that I will give you a son." She slid her thumb down the line of his neck, making sure he shuddered beneath it. "Not just any son, Tom.  _Ours_. An heir with your blood and mine," she whispered to him, feeling him stiffen with a sharp intake of breath. "With your  _power_ , Tom, and mine. Who would ever stand against us? How could we ever be less than immortal, or ever again be challenged by any member of your wayward court?"

She waited, calculating the frozen motion of his chest, and held her own breath captive, coiled up in her throat.

Then Tom exhaled, his blue eyes lit to flames by the fire behind her as his lips curled up in a smile.

"Well, then," he determined gruffly, pulling her onto his lap with a look of consummate satisfaction. "In that case, let us finally make you a Queen."

* * *

For nearly a week they chanced the possibility of exposure to make the ride to Grimmauld, skirting the usual royal roads in favor of traveling in circles to obscure their path. There were things at his former home that he needed enough to merit the gamble, Harry had insisted; there were men there whose loyalty he would still require, and there were risks that needed to be taken in order to move forward.

Pansy, by then no stranger to risk, tried desperately to be as fearless as he was.

It was obvious from the start that all of Grimmauld was more than simply loyal to Harry. In fact, Pansy pitied whoever would acquire his lands, knowing that those who worked it acknowledged only one Duke, and in fact, only one true King, disinheritance or no disinheritance.

 _These are all men who served my godfather,_ Harry explained to her,  _and who were loyal to my father_ , and whom she could see without doubt would willingly die for him - which was a skill, she knew, that Tom did not possess. For him, men tried in fear  _not_ to die; for Harry, though, men bent their heads in reverence without prompting, without intimidation or threats, and gradually, the tight knot of fear in her belly began to ease.

She had chosen a man who was easily loved, and therefore not easily frightened.

For that, she loved him infinitely more.

"Do you really plan to just stay here?" she whispered, following after him as they snuck carefully into the Grimmauld estate. "Isn't it dangerous? Tom's men would think to look here for you, surely - "

"We won't be long," Harry assured her, his fingers laced tightly with hers as he pulled her through the winding corridors towards the Grimmauld castle's main drawing room. "I just need to take some things, and - "

He came to a sudden halt, shoving her behind him and out of sight.

"Harry, what are you - "

"Ah, excellent, you're finally here," came a low drawl, and Pansy nearly choked on a stifled breath, recognizing the sound of Draco Malfoy's voice. "Took you long enough, Potter, honestly."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry returned, his tone edged with warning.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" Draco replied, and Pansy registered footsteps as he came closer. "I'm the new Duke of Grimmauld. You can come out, you know," he called, louder, clearly addressing Pansy as she flinched. "I know you're here, Your Majesty."

"Why would y-" Harry stopped, and Pansy heard the confusion in his voice. "What did you call her?"

"Well, she's Queen, isn't she?" Draco prompted, and Pansy stepped into the room after Harry, her hand still tight in his as she met the grey eyes of the younger Malfoy. "No matter how that Granger woman would have it."

"You do know we've been divested of our titles," Harry informed him slowly.

"Christ, Potter, you're going to have to keep up," Draco snapped. "Yes, of course I know you've been disinherited. You're standing in  _my_  new house," he supplied emphatically, gesturing around, "and wearing  _my_  new heirlooms - "

"What do you want, Lord Malfoy?" Pansy cut in, watching Harry's shoulders stiffen as he registered Draco's claim. "Surely there's something you intend to get out of this."

"Yes, in fact, there is," Draco confirmed, taking a few steps backwards and falling into Harry's seat at the head of the hall. "I presume you're going to make a run at the throne, aren't you?"

Harry, wisely, didn't answer.

"Well, fair enough," Draco permitted, leaning forward. "Here's my offer, then: if you oppose Tom, I'll back you," he said plainly. "I've lost interest in the Gaunt King's agenda. He continues to hold a grudge against my father, and therefore, I have little to gain by supporting him aside from perhaps a seat on the privy council if my father ever has the civility to die. Now  _you_ , on the other hand," he mused, gesturing around Harry's castle, "have Queen Olympe's financial support and quite obviously the uncontested backing of all the nobles who would oppose the King,  _and_  this is a very nice house - "

"Yes," Harry muttered. "Which Tom gave you, didn't he? Despite it being not even remotely his to give."

"Actually, his little witch of a consort gave it to me," Draco returned, his mouth tightening. "She's seen fit to banish me from court, too, which is of course a stupid mistake. Look how much I can do when the King's eyes aren't constantly on me," he suggested, beckoning pointedly to Harry. "For example, I can cleverly hide myself inside my enemy's castle without his own men even noticing."

"You traveled alone," Pansy noted. "Is Nott not here? Or your father?"

"Nope," Draco replied. "I'm alone because I  _wished_  to be alone, which, again, I opted for  _because_ ," he determined emphatically, rising to his feet once again, "I wanted to catch  _you_  alone, Potter. And look how good I am at getting what I want."

"You really mean for me to believe that you oppose Tom?" Harry prompted, looking more than slightly dubious. "Why?"

Draco scoffed. "Well, quite frankly, his judgment is questionable. It's as if he doesn't remember that kings have been disposed for these errors before," he added pointedly, locking eyes with Harry. "Or do you not recall your own father's downfall shortly after he took a wife?"

"You oppose Tom because he favors a woman beneath his station?" Harry echoed, bewildered. "My mother was - "

"Your mother was a nobody," Draco supplied for him. "A commoner, just as Granger is, and it was the death of him in the end, wasn't it? And it will be the death of this King, too, whether his end comes sooner or later, because this is only the beginning. This is only the first sign," Draco clarified, "that he no longer knows how to keep his nobles happy, but there will undoubtedly be more."

"Tom and his Loyalists were the death of my father, not my mother's birth," Harry countered fiercely, but Draco merely shrugged.

"What does it matter?" he asked. "Kings aren't gods. They are men, and they err, and eventually other men will always come to pick up the pieces. Consider this an investment on my part," he added. "You can trust me, Potter, because for one thing, you don't have a choice," he warned, "and for another, there is something in it for me, and I will not bother to hide it."

"So what is it you want from me, then?" Harry asked, as Pansy frowned, still gauging Draco's intent.

"Your land," Draco supplied, shrugging. "I have an ancestral claim to it myself through my mother, so it's only fair. Your men," he added, gesturing vaguely outside the castle walls. "And a favored seat on your privy council. I want a comfortable life, Potter."

"You already have a comfortable life," Harry returned, skeptical. "You are favored at court far more than I was - "

"And even as King," Pansy couldn't help interjecting, "if Harry were to grant you his lands and his men, you would easily have the resources to betray him in the future, just as you're betraying Tom now." She paused, watching for his reaction. "Wouldn't you?"

Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard.

"She's right," Harry said, sparing her half a smile. "She's fairly brilliant, isn't she? A fair bit smarter than you, Malfoy. Luckily I have her on my side," he added, running his thumb over her knuckles.

At that, Draco rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he muttered gruffly. "You want the truth? I want Granger brought down."

"Lady Hermione?" Harry echoed, surprised. "Why?"

Pansy, on the other hand, said nothing, watching Draco's face contort in displeasure.

"You have your vendettas, Potter," he snapped impatiently. "Let me have mine."

"But - "

"Harry," Pansy whispered, tugging him back and gesturing to the corridor. "We should - "

"Yes, yes, think it over," Draco told them, waving a hand. "Though you should know you don't have a lot of time. I would expect the King's guard to arrive here fairly soon."

"You said you came alone," Harry grumbled irritably, and Draco shrugged.

"I did," he confirmed. "But Tom's not a total idiot, Potter. He'll be sending someone to check on me if he knows what's good for him, and my protection is obviously contingent on your acquiescence."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Five minutes," he said, and Draco shrugged again.

"Go, go," he offered flippantly, waving a hand, and Harry turned without a word, drawing Pansy into an alcove of Grimmauld's primary corridor.

"Be careful with him," Pansy whispered the moment they were alone. "I wouldn't trust his motives."

"You don't think he genuinely wishes Tom deposed?" Harry asked, and she shook her head.

"I don't think this is about Tom in the slightest," she said hastily. "I think it's about Hermione, but even then - " she exhaled. "Even then, I don't think this is anywhere close to what he claims, Harry. I don't think he wishes her to die, and I think that when all these events come to pass, he might feel differently than he claims."

"But if Tom falls, Hermione will almost certainly die, or else her life imprisoned in a nunnery," Harry said, frowning, and Pansy nodded her agreement. "But isn't that what he wants?"

"It's what he  _says_  he wants," Pansy permitted. "But can you stake everything on it? What if he wants the throne for himself," she hissed apprehensively, glancing over her shoulder. "What then? What if your life is in danger? He's shown himself hardly loyal  _at all_ , to anyone, and if you trust him now, then someday he might very well prove that to be a terrible mistake!"

"I can't afford to think about the future," Harry informed her briskly. "I only have so much time, Pansy, and it's been hard enough to get this far. For one thing, I'm not going to force you to live in hiding for the rest of your life - "

"What do you mean 'only so much time'?" Pansy pressed, bewildered. "Harry, you're younger than Tom. You would have such a long reign ahead of you - "

"You don't understand," Harry cut in bluntly. "Tom can - Tom can do things," he clarified, in what ultimately served to provide almost no clarity for Pansy. "He's no ordinary tyrant. I cannot defeat him alone, I  _need_  people like Malfoy - I could use people on the inside - and even the process of challenging Tom - "

He broke off, swallowing.

"I may not survive it," he said simply, and Pansy blinked.

"What?" she asked. "But - but who would be King, then? If not you, then - "

"It doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "I told you, Pansy, the point was never that I would be King. It's not the throne I want - it's simply that someone deserving occupy it. Someone who isn't a murderer, or a despot - "

"But that's  _you_ ," Pansy insisted. "You are the rightful King, Harry -  _you_  are the man who should bear the crown, and - and if you trust Malfoy," she stammered, "if you take this gamble now, how do you know that it won't - that someday, he won't just - "

"Pansy," Harry sighed, taking her face in his hands. "My Queen, my love. My clever, cunning strategist."

"Harry, don't patronize me. You can't trust him, he isn-"

"Pansy," Harry said again, his thumb stroking the angle of her cheek. "I am going to have to take this deal. Do you understand? I'm going to take it," he determined firmly, "and I'll have to worry about the consequences later."

 _I may not survive it_ , she suddenly heard him say again, and heard this time what he had meant:

_I do not expect to survive it._

"Harry," she attempted hoarsely. "But - but how - why would you - "

"You understand," he pressed, bending his forehead to hers. "Don't you?"

"But you might survive," she insisted. "You  _will_ , and then you'll have created this terrible headache for yourself - a fractured, unmanageable court - "

"Yes," he agreed, though he didn't sound much like he believed it. "Yes, perhaps I might survive, and then perhaps I will have many, many wonderfully mundane problems. Perhaps we could live a long life together, too," he mused, "and perhaps you would finally be a Queen beloved, as is your right. And as I have always promised you."

He paused.

"Or," he began, and she shook her head, furiously resting her forehead against his chest.

"Don't," she said firmly. "Don't, I can't bear it, I  _can't_ \- "

"Can't you?" he asked, tilting her chin up to look at her. "You're strong, Pansy. Stronger than anyone. You've never needed me, have you? Only loved me. Haven't you?"

"Harry," she forced out, incensed with herself when the sound of it emerged as a rasp. "Harry, what will I do without you? Didn't you promise me?" she demanded furiously, yanking away from him. "Didn't you promise me forever, Harry? It's got to be somewhere," she insisted. "Somewhere in your - in your  _handbook_ , it has to say - it has to say  _something_  about keeping your impossible promises, doesn't it?"

He laughed, ever the rogue; ever the knave to find humor in her haughty privilege, in her insistence on how the world should be.

"Is it really forever that you want, Pansy?" he asked her, gently reaching for her hand. She reluctantly gave it to him, feeling at once desperate and devastated and sulky, and worse - terribly, terribly scared.

"Yes," she muttered furiously, still refusing to look at him until he tugged her closer with a smile, carefully bending down to settle himself on one knee.

"Then forever is what you'll have," he promised her, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

* * *

The wedding was as grand as Tom had promised it would be, and far more opulent a celebration than Hermione had ever imagined would someday be for her.

Despite the finery, though, it was hardly an enjoyable process. Hermione couldn't breathe, the lacings of her corset tied so tight she wondered if she might collapse at any moment, and beneath the burden of her new crown, she thought for certain she would stagger and fall, not having been raised to bear the weight of it as her predecessors had been.

Still, she was Queen.

She was Queen as no other woman in Diagon had been, and she held more than jewels in her hands. She held the keys to a kingdom, and she watched the banners fall with a private flood of triumph. She basked in the image of the snake wrapped around the lioness; indulged in the vision of her initials and Tom's wound together in the elaborate script that meant she had finally, finally won.

She had won, and she was Queen.

"Your Majesty," Daphne said to her, a cleverly hidden smile on her lovely mouth as she bowed, and in this - in the tiniest of motions - Hermione luxuriated. She had won no small prize, no trifling reward.

She had won, and she was Queen.

"A toast," Tom called through the castle's Great Hall, "to my wife Hermione, the Queen of Diagon." He turned to face her, the corners of his lips curled up in a subtle, enticing smile. "At long last, a worthy Queen to rule beside me."

There was a chatter of subdued agreement as the nobles and guests nodded along, obediently raising their glasses in her honor.

"Oh, and," Tom continued, surprising them all, "a Queen to rule in my absence, as well." He glanced down at her, his smile broadening. "For soon enough, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be ours, and the court of Diagon will see its most glorious years to come. To Queen Hermione!" he called to the Hall, and there was another startled smattering of applause as Tom fell back into his throne, laughing and pressing Hermione's hand to his lips.

"Are you ready, my lioness?" he asked her. "Now that the Loyalist nobles know that they've all been put aside, you'll have many, many fangs to contend with."

She could already see as much. She saw the elder Lord Nott and Lucius Malfoy bend their heads together, frowning, but still - this was her triumph, and so she managed a smile for her new husband.

"I know how to handle a snake," she assured him, and Tom laughed again, beckoning for the herald to begin the procession of their guests.

"Mulciber," Tom acknowledged, as the other man knelt down before them. "A great pleasure to have you, as always."

"Yes," Mulciber replied, turning his attention to Hermione. "Your Majesty," he offered to her, slightly stiffly, and Hermione nodded politely before glancing up, catching sight of Daphne approaching.

"Lord and Lady Nott," the herald announced as Daphne struggled to curtsy, her fingers white against Theo's hand.

"Your Majesties," Theo offered, clearly preoccupied with holding his wife steady. "May you have a long and prosperous marriage, and, er - "

"My goodness, Theodore," Tom interrupted, unsubtly eyeing Daphne's belly. "How pregnant  _is_  she?"

"The doctor says twins," Theo supplied, looking positively ecstatic as he glanced sheepishly at his wife. "Two heartbeats as of yesterday, Your Majesty."

"Congratulations, Lady Nott," Hermione offered, genuinely warmed on her behalf, but she could see Daphne was hesitant to return her smile.

"I thank you, Your Majesty," Daphne offered just above a whisper, her gaze cutting swiftly to Tom.

Hermione turned in time to catch her husband's expression darkening, and recalled without warning what Daphne had said before;  _it is as if he believes me to be growing the man who might one day challenge him._

 _Two men, then,_  Hermione realized, and registered the source of tension in Tom's fingers as they tightened around the arm of his throne.

She reached out for him once Theo and Daphne had gone, resting her hand gently on his and soothing him, hoping to ease his paranoia.

"Tom," she murmured. "Soon, I promise, you will have a son of your own t-"

"Lord Draco Malfoy, Duke of Grimmauld," announced the herald, and Hermione's fingers abruptly tightened around Tom's, a spark of something careless suddenly reverberating from her palm and shocking the both of them.

"Ouch," she hissed under her breath, and turned to find Draco waiting expectantly for their attention, his grey eyes alighting unapologetically on her expression of dismay.

"Your Majesty," he offered, and she felt her own eyes narrow, her fingers curling loosely around the stinging flesh of her palm.

"Ah, Draco," Tom said, nodding to him. "I'm pleased you were able to make it in time. I summoned him back from Grimmauld to prepare you for my absence," he added to Hermione, who fought the instant need to protest in favor of gnashing her teeth in muted frustration. "Draco is far more knowledgeable about the castle's security measures than anyone - aside from Severus, perhaps," he amended, "but I'll need him at my side during campaign. I trust the short notice wasn't too challenging?" he prompted, abruptly turning his attention back to Draco, who offered a genial nod.

"Your Majesty, I assure you, it was my pleasure to be here without delay," he said, his grey gaze leveling once again on Hermione's. "I would not have missed this."

"How are you liking your new lands?" Hermione asked him neutrally, and his mouth twitched into something that was not a smile; something more like a smirk, the entire angle of it stretched to the limits with contempt.

"Quite comfortable," Draco replied smoothly. "So many new opportunities to make use of."

"Excellent," Tom judged, turning towards Severus' approaching form. "Ah, excuse me, Lord Malfoy, a King's duty never ends - "

"Of course," Draco offered neutrally, and as Tom turned away, he held his hand out for Hermione's.

She blinked.

"Your hand," Draco clarified, his voice low as he gestured to it. "I'm supposed to kiss it - you know," he added derisively, "as a sign of reverence for my richly deserving Queen."

"I know that," she snapped under her breath, and this time she was sure he was mocking her with his expression, the disdainful smirk spread thin with mirth as she glared at him, incensed. "I simply don't wish to touch you."

"Mm, of course," he drawled. "And yet, with all these people watching - "

She sighed, half-slapping her hand onto his expectant palm, and she could have sworn she saw his shoulders shaking with furtive laughter, his lips lowering to brush against her hand.

"I don't need you," she muttered to him. "And I promise you, cross me again and I'll send you back to Grimmauld just as quickly - "

"Really, Granger?" Draco breathed over her knuckles, still chuckling quietly. "You didn't miss me at all?"

She forced her temper not to flare, reminded of their audience.

"I will never allow your counsel. You're a murderer," she whispered adamantly to him.

"Not much of one, seeing as the victim was already possessed by a witch," he murmured back.

She yanked her hand from his, furious.

"I'm your Queen," she reminded him brusquely. "You will address me as such."

Draco shrugged, rising to his feet.

"For now, perhaps," he said, his voice clipped, and then he offered her the shallowest of bows before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving her to shake in place with fury once he'd gone.

It was only many hours later that she was able to cast him from her thoughts, finally recalling the spoils of her triumph.

"Did you enjoy your evening, my Queen?" Tom asked her, positioning himself on the bed and beckoning to her. "Was it everything you desired?"

She bit her tongue on her complaints about Draco Malfoy, having gone down that particular road too many times before.

"Very nearly," she said instead, and slid towards him on the bed, drawing her hand along the line of his thigh as he turned to her with a growl of approval, his skin flushed and heated under her touch.

"Do you see it as I see it?" Tom whispered to her, the words seeping hungrily from his lips. "The glory, Hermione. The reign we'll have together; the splendor of it, of what we'll be, and the  _power_  - "

_What do you see?_

_Glory_ , she thought rapturously,  _and a crown -_

She shut her eyes, shivering beneath his hands as he pressed her back, still equal parts tempting and terrible in all the places his skin met hers, like a fire that would not -  _could_  not - extinguish. It came to her again, the visions of him - the lick of flames that burned in the base of her stomach, that flooded through her veins, that circled through her bones - and it brought her gasping to the surface for air, for breath, for sanity as Tom slid himself inside her.

 _Fire with him_ , she thought,  _always fire_  -

 _For you_ , she heard herself offer breathlessly,  _I'll always burn -_

It shifted again; the visions behind her eyes.

Flickers on the horizon, the fire that raged out of sight - a crimson sky, a scarlet shadow, a world engulfed in flames -  _passion and blood and bone_  -

_Tom, please -_

She shuddered.

_This is what you've made of me, Hermione -_

_This is what you've done!_

"Tom," she gasped, but it wasn't his voice that answered her.

 _I will make a ruin of you_ , Draco's voice whispered in her mind, and she blinked back the grey of his eyes, falling rigid in their sight.

* * *

"Was it enough?"

"Well," Pansy said, turning to face him, "it was smaller than my last wedding, I'll admit."

Harry smiled.

"But was it enough?" he asked her again, holding her closer as she eyed the thin gold circlet around her finger, her hands pressed against his chest.

She closed her eyes, breathing in concert with him, and allowed her contentment to be his answer.

"Do you know," she murmured to him after a moment, "I think you cursed me from the start, Lord Henry."

"Oh?" he asked, the rumble of his voice vibrating beneath her hands. "How?"

Her eyes fluttered open, finding the familiar jeweled tone of his.

"It was you I thought of on my wedding night," she told him, looking up to confess it to him for the first time. "When I was with Tom that night, it was your face I saw."

"Funny," Harry remarked. "I thought of you on your wedding night myself."

"Did you know?" Pansy asked him. "Even then. Did you know it would be like this?"

"Well, I don't consider myself that skilled a fortune-teller," Harry said.

"But did you know?" she repeated.

He paused.

"I couldn't have known it would be like this," he admitted after a moment, shaking his head. "I could never have dreamt it. But did I know then what I would have given to be with you? Yes." His hand slid down her waist, resting lightly on her hip. "Yes, I think I did."

 _I will love you,_  he had told her, the two of them facing each other beside Grimmauld's old half-blind priest,  _for all of my life._

 _And I will love you,_  she replied,  _for far longer, if only because you've left me no other choice._

 _I will die loving you,_  he promised her, shaking his head.

 _And I will have lived,_  she replied, her fingers tight in his,  _having been brave enough to love you fully in return._

"What now, then?" she asked him, toying with the dark hair at the back of his neck. "Are you not worried about Draco being back at court?"

Harry shrugged. "He had to go," he said. "He was summoned, and he has to keep up appearances. Plus," he added, "it will keep Tom's attention away from Grimmauld for a time, so it isn't all bad."

"Still," Pansy insisted. "This coronation, it feels rushed," she murmured. "It feels dangerous. I'm certain that Tom has more planned, or else why do it now? And with Draco out of sight - "

"You see so much, don't you?" Harry interrupted fondly. "You're like a lovely mystic, my pretty wife."

She opened her mouth to press the issue but paused, momentarily captivated by something else instead.

"Your wife," Pansy echoed, marveling at the sound of it.

"Yes," Harry agreed, bringing her hand to his lips. "Mine, as I've so often wished it."

"So is it really this easy, then?"

"Is what easy?"

She hesitated, feeling foolish.

"Happiness," she whispered, and his lips quirked up into his clever rogue's smile.

"Well, I can make it harder if you like," he murmured, rolling her onto her back and slipping his head under the covers, his lips pressing into the span of her ribs.

"Do that," she advised primly, closing her eyes.

But even with his mouth on her - his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and all of him just like her imaginings of what they could be only  _better,_  and  _real_ , with the whole of him in blissful, solid form beneath her touch - she still felt the vacancy of him echoing powerfully between them in the brief moments that they parted; in the moments when he slid his hand from one inch of her bare skin to the next. She felt him drift away and return, felt them part and then join together, and felt a tremor of a too-familiar fear that there might be a time without him; that somewhere, a King and Queen with wills like steel and hearts like ice might still plot to rob them of the time that had been so hard fought, and yet so narrowly won.

 _Did all moments of joy have two faces?_  Pansy wondered. One of what was, and yet another of what could be? Were all moments of triumph only ever borrowed from a moment of future loss? It was as if there was too much of it in her hands - too much of him, of them, of  _everything_  - to hold on as tightly as she wished to, and pain beckoned from the other side; which was, she suspected, something of a ploy to only give her as much bliss as she could carry, and then to rob her of the rest.

She wondered if in some parallel moment to this one, she would see it all slip through her fingers.

But then Harry kissed her, and it no longer seemed an important thing to wonder.


	18. What Runs In Our Veins

**Chapter 18: What Runs In Our Veins**

The ride from Grimmauld to the Weasley's estate wasn't particularly long, though Pansy couldn't help being apprehensive the moment they set out to reach it. Draco had assured them his guard would turn a blind eye to their movements, but still; Pansy was beginning to wonder if she would ever lose the compulsion to look over her shoulder. She held her breath at every speck in the distance, blinking back the fear that she would one day see Tom's cold blue eyes bearing down at her back, and for the entire day it took to travel her jaw was persistently sore, overtired from biting down on the near-constant shudder that ground out from her teeth.

"Harry," Ron called exuberantly once they reached his estate, his bright red hair and lanky build visible from a distance as he waved them down from the stables. "And Your Majesty," he added awkwardly to Pansy, dropping into a bow as Harry leapt down first, offering her his hand. "I, um. I hope you had a, er - "

"I'm not the Queen any longer," Pansy reminded him, catching Harry's look of amusement at Ron's flustered gawking. "I'm just - "

She hesitated, unsure what to say.

"My wife," Harry supplied for her, glancing meaningfully at Ron, and the other man blinked.

"Oh," he said, seeming to stumble into yet another mental halt. "I, well, then I - "

"So she's family," Harry clarified, and Ron nodded hastily.

"Right, right, yes, of course, come in - "

The Weasley estate was, as Daphne had always said that it was, nothing particularly impressive. The youngest of many, many siblings, Ron had no land of his own, and instead maintained his parents' land and house, which was rather crumbling and drafty - albeit comfortable, Pansy thought, at least from the fraternal warmth emanating between the two men.

"I'm surprised you weren't summoned to court," Harry commented when they'd sat down to eat, Pansy sipping quietly at her ale while Ron continued to cast sidelong bemused glances at her. "I would think Tom would know to keep a closer eye on you."

"I was summoned," Ron said simply. "My parents and my siblings are currently at court, but then I heard from you, so I stayed behind."

"Seems dangerous not to go at the King's command," Pansy commented, and Ron shrugged.

"There are enough redheaded men standing around that Tom will simply assume I'm present," he supplied neutrally, and Pansy bit back a laugh as Harry shook his head, chuckling. "We should really discuss what we're doing next, though," Ron added, turning pointedly to Harry. "I won't get away with disobeying him for long, and really, I should make an appearance at court in the next couple of days; the closer you get to gathering men out of Tom's sight, the more present I should be."

"Good thought," Harry agreed, nodding. "Your absence would certainly be suspicious."

"It would. Though I should warn you, I haven't heard from Krum or Poliakoff yet," Ron remarked, and at that, too, Harry nodded.

"I wouldn't expect you to. Tom likely has spies watching their communications," he clarified. "There will have to be some other way to reach them. For now, we'll have to bide our time."

"Not to mention that Durmstrang is likely preparing for war themselves," Pansy added neutrally, and at that, Ron and Harry both glanced at her. "Against Tom," she clarified, and they nodded slowly. "I'm fairly certain he intends a war with Queen Olympe, and soon. He's always seen Beauxbatons being well within his grasp, and heaven knows Karkaroff can't be trusted to keep him out. I'd imagine Poliakoff and Krum have their own battles to contend with at the moment."

"Well, if Tom intends to strike soon, that changes things," Ron said, glancing at Harry. "You could make a run for Hogwarts while he's on campaign, don't you think?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "We'll wait. The castle isn't what's important. It has to be Tom. He has to be there."

"But - "

"We only have one shot at him," Harry cut in firmly. "I won't waste it striking behind his back and giving him time to recover. And anyway, I already agreed with Malfoy - "

"I'm sorry, what?" Ron prompted, coughing sharply on a sip of ale. "What was that about Malfoy?"

"He's at Hogwarts now keeping an eye on things," Harry replied, deliberately avoiding the question. "Even if I wanted to, I can't take the castle while he's there. It'll simply cost me his support in the end, and I need his men.  _My_  men," he amended gruffly, "which are evidently his now - "

"Do you mean  _Draco_  Malfoy?" Ron protested, looking positively thunderstruck. "Don't tell me you made a deal with him, Harry. He could be double-crossing you as we speak! Bill says he's been called back to court  _with_  Tom's favor - he's been meeting with other members of the privy council, given more responsibility and deference from the castle guard - "

"All which helps us," Harry said simply. "The closer he gets to Tom, the better for us."

"Yes, but the more powerful he gets, the more dangerous he is to you, Harry!" Ron reminded him. "The more powerful he appears to the other nobles and the longer you stay gone, the more they will look to him over you - "

"Then we won't stay gone long," Harry said, glancing briefly at Pansy for confirmation. "Once Tom returns, then we'll strike. It'll be easier that way, anyway; his men will already be exhausted from battle, and the castle itself likely disorganized in his absence," he added thoughtfully, "depending on who runs it - "

"But what if Tom is killed?" Ron countered. "Then who will be next, Harry? Everyone knows that if Tom dies Hermione won't be able to defend herself against an uprising by the nobles, which would almost certainly happen - "

"He won't die," Harry replied, just as Pansy demanded, "What about Hermione?"

They all paused, eyeing each other.

"What about Hermione?" Pansy asked again, sensing something troubling.

"She's been named Tom's successor," Ron said, frowning. "Didn't you hear? The nobles are outraged, they've been talking about it incessantly according to Bill - she's been named Queen Regnant," he clarified to Harry, "meaning that she is not simply Tom's consort, but reigning Queen in Tom's absence."

"Well," Harry considered, frowning. "That also changes things."

"Wait. What do you mean Tom won't die?" Pansy asked, suddenly recalling what Harry had thrown out so carelessly. "How can you be sure? Ron's right," she added, gesturing to a then-smugly pleased Ron. "If Tom dies and the nobles rise up against Hermione in favor of one of their own, how do you know Draco won't simply take the throne for himself?"

"Because Tom won't die," Harry said flatly. "He just won't."

"But - "

"He is not a King like other men have been King," Harry said simply. "I told you. He is no ordinary tyrant."

"Yes, I know you've said that, but - "

"Besides," Harry continued. "I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss Hermione. The castle may persist well enough under her rule in Tom's absence; I could be very wrong about the state of it upon Tom's return - "

"I don't dismiss Hermione," Pansy retorted. "I haven't before, and I won't now. She's an unreasonably cunning woman, and if Tom's goal is simply to hold the throne as ruthlessly as possible, then he chose well in supporting her over his nobles. But how can you be so certain that he will survive?"

"I just am," Harry said, and all at once, Pansy noted that Ron was conspicuously not arguing.

He, in fact, looked uncomfortable, as people tend to look when they know a secret.

"Some men are just gifted at war," Harry told her, catching her look of dismay. "Wise men succeed in times of peace, but men who are relentless make war as naturally as they take breaths, and Tom is one of those. He is accustomed to looking over his shoulder; he moves like no mortal man I've ever seen. In every battle Tom has ever fought, he has been quick and he has been cunning, and he has effortlessly laid waste to his opponents." He paused, letting this information settle over their heads. "War requires a tactician's brain, an executioner's will, and a demon's speed. Tom has all three, and therefore it will take more than a few angry nobles to defeat him."

"Yes," Ron permitted, after a moment. "Though he doesn't have the chosen one's luck, does he?"

"Well," Harry acknowledged carefully, a spark of his normal self returning to the corners of his upturned mouth, "I didn't think it worth mentioning, but I'm certainly not untalented myself."

Pansy let this information sink in, recognizing again a knowing glance between the two men and finding herself frustratingly on the perimeter of their knowledge.

"Let me get us more ale," she suggested slowly, rising to her feet.

"Oh, no," Ron said with a pang of dismay, glancing around. "No, I'm sure I can call someone to do it for you - "

"Nonsense," Pansy replied firmly. "I'm the wife of a disgraced noble. I should learn to do practical things, like escape execution and fetch ale," she joked, though Ron looked far more disturbed than entertained at the reference. "I was just - nevermind. Excuse me for a moment," she offered hastily, resting a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder.

Then she slipped out of sight, pausing just outside the corridor.

"Well," Ron said, clearing his throat nearly a minute after she'd gone. "I didn't realize you would marry her."

She heard the scraping of metal against wood, as if Harry were toying with his tankard.

"I love her," he said simply.

"Yes, yes, marvelous," Ron muttered. "But you realize that Tom is actively vilifying you to the rest of the country because you  _stole_ his bloody  _wife -_ "

"Let him," Harry replied flippantly. "He's villainized me my entire life, hasn't he? Why would he stop now?"

"Yes, but now you're tempering your own appeal, you know," Ron informed him grumpily. "The nobles could have rallied easily behind the Peverell son when you were the beacon of righteousness. Were you locked in a cell right now rather than off fucking the deposed Loyalist Queen, they would come to your aid without hesitation." Pansy winced, biting lightly on the inside of her cheek and recognizing that again, Ron was right. "Not to mention that if you were still available as a marital prospect, you'd  _also_  have the support of foreign allies who could put their daughters on the Diagon throne beside you - "

"You don't need to tell me how to be a prince, Ron," Harry cut in irritably. "I grasp the concept, having been one since birth. But it's not like Pansy's without tactical appeal," he pointed out. "She's a noble herself, isn't she?"

"She's a Loyalist's daughter, Harry, and more importantly, she already has a husband," Ron snapped, prompting Pansy to flinch again. "Just because Tom called himself a widower and took another Queen doesn't mean the rest of Diagon will soon forget that Pansy was his wife first, and he has thus far laid  _waste_  to her reputation - "

"But perhaps they'll simply romanticize it," Harry suggested, in a tone that Pansy recognized from afar as his particular timbre of stubborn avoidance. "She's beloved, Ron. Adored by the court and the people, whatever Tom says or tries to say. And by the way, you once agreed with me that she could have taken the throne herself if she'd ever wanted to - married one of the Durmstrang nobles and ruled as a temporary regent with Olympe's favor, had we succeeded with them - "

"Yes, but we didn't succeed, and your marriage to her now will make all of this more difficult," Ron interrupted, sighing. " _Infinitely_  more difficult." He paused, clearing his throat, and Pansy heard another shuffling of hesitation before he asked, "Does she know about Tom?"

Pansy wondered what he meant, but Harry clearly didn't.

"No," Harry replied. "Nor about Hermione."

"I - Hermione, too? Really?"

Pansy frowned, leaning closer.

"Yes. And I meant what I said about her, too. That woman is not to be trifled with."

"But how did you - "

"Do me a favor, Ron, and don't ask questions you know I can't answer. I can't even explain most of this to myself."

"Yes, I know, but - "

"And Ron," Harry said, with the scrape of a chair against wooden floor as he must have shifted closer. "I need you to trust me on this."

"I always trust you, don't I?"

"Yes, but I mean it this time. This will not end well, Ron. There are very few outcomes where I come out of this with my head."

"Ah. So same as always, then."

"Ron."

"Right, sorry, I'm listening-"

"I know you fight for me alone, Ron, but this has always been bigger than me. Pansy knows it, I think. And I know you know it too, but I need you to listen to me. I had to make some deals to get to this point, and - "

"Yes, and with Malfoy, no less - "

" _Ron_."

"Right. Sorry. Continue."

"Just trust me. Will you?"

There was a pause, and Pansy held her breath.

"I love you, Harry, I do, and I want to have faith in your judgment," Ron said slowly, "but I just don't see how any man could be more worthy than you to hold the throne - "

"Anyone but Tom, Ron. You know that. Anyone."

"Yes, I know, you  _say_  that, but it's not remotely true!" Ron protested irritably. "None of the Loyalist nobles would be any better, and if not you, then who?"

"I don't know, Ron. We'll sort that out when we get to it. You know," Harry added drily, "when I'm dead."

"HARRY!" Ron bellowed, and Pansy sighed quietly, still very much in agreement with him.

"Fine," Harry said with a low chuckle. "Fine. I'll take the throne and fix everything, and then we'll all live happily ever after and I'll buy you a manor house."

" _One_  manor house? That's it? After everything I've done for you? Three houses,  _at least_."

"Fine. Three houses. But only two cows."

"Bloody fuck, Harry - "

"And I know you disapprove of my being with Pansy," Harry cut in, as Pansy chewed her lip apprehensively. "But please, Ron. Please, you have to understand - "

"Just tell me this, Harry, and it will be enough for me," Ron replied, with another shuffling sound, as if he'd moved closer to Harry. "Was it worth it?" he asked, and then paused. "Is  _she_ ," he clarified, exhaling, "worth it?"

Another pause, and Pansy held her breath.

"All of it," Harry said. "All of it, done over again a thousand times, and then perhaps a thousand more. Do you remember the angels of our boyhood, Ron? The stories of them, the celestial figures who came down from heavens. Terrifying and beautiful, that made men fall to their knees?"

"So she's an angel?"

"No, not remotely," Harry said with a laugh, and Pansy rolled her eyes. "But she's terrifying, and she's beautiful, and I swear to you Ron, every time I look at her, I feel I might very well crumble at her feet."

"Ah. So she's made a terrible poet of you, then."

"She made a careless knave a careful man," Harry corrected, "and the King I would be beside her is the only King I would ever wish to be."

"Well then," Ron exhaled after a moment, letting out a sigh. "I suppose I should simply be grateful the realm is safe from your less heroic qualities, shouldn't I?"

"To the realm!" Harry called loudly, with the sound of a raised glass.

"To the bloody realm," Ron groaned in reply, as Pansy finally shook her head, carefully tiptoeing down to the kitchens.

* * *

"You know," Hermione murmured, running her finger carefully along the notches of Tom's spine, "you haven't taught me anything new lately."

Tom chuckled. "Haven't I?" he prompted, turning his head to look at her. "I'd say most of what we just did was relatively advanced, wouldn't you?"

"I'd say fairly elementary, actually," she replied, and he rolled over with a laugh, pulling her into him.

"What would you like to learn, then, my lioness?" he asked her, stroking the line of her arm. "How to fly? How to breathe underwater like a fish?"

"I could already do all that if I wanted to," Hermione reminded him haughtily, ignoring his low rumble of laughter at her insolence. "And besides, there's nothing too interesting about being a fish, Tom."

"Certainly not when you're a Queen," he agreed, brushing her curls back from her face. "So what do you want, then?"

She paused contemplating it. "I want to do what you do," she said eventually, and Tom's brow twitched, bemused.

"What I do?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "You - you're persuasive. You read people so easily," she clarified. "Your nobles - it's like you simply enter their minds and prompt them to obedience."

"That's not magic," Tom informed her. "That's power."

"Didn't you yourself say they are one and the same?" Hermione pressed. "When you walk in a room, they don't even whisper. They barely dare to look you in the eye," she murmured. "Even Lucius Malfoy, whom you admit would try to take your place if the opportunity presented itself, practically shakes with fear whenever you express displeasure - "

"Do you really wish to be feared?" Tom asked neutrally. "That's easy enough. Simply give them something to fear."

"I just want to understand how you do it," Hermione pressed, and frowned, not wanting to mention her continued apprehension over Draco Malfoy's shadowed presence. "I want to know how to walk in a room like you and subject it to my own domain," she sighed, "that no noble would ever think to challenge me - "

"Do you have enemies?" Tom asked with a chuckle. "You seem to have someone in mind, my little Queen."

"Of course I have enemies," she replied carefully, again shoving Draco out of her mind. "My enemies are your enemies, aren't they?"

"Well then I assure you, your enemies are well handled," Tom replied, and Hermione sighed.

"Yes, I know, but - " she paused, clearing her throat. "You've been inside my mind before," she ventured, trying to play it off as casually as she could manage. "Could I, perhaps," she murmured, reaching up to brush a lock of dark hair from his forehead, "enter yours?"

To her surprise, Tom went rigid beneath her touch.

"I don't think it would do you much good," he replied stiffly.

"Well, perhaps not," Hermione conceded, stroking his temple lightly, "but still, I think it would help to see the world as you do. Wouldn't it?"

"Hermione," Tom warned, turning his head away from her. "If there's something specific you want me to teach you, then fine, but this - "

"Is it really asking so much?" she asked, a little frustrated by his refusal. "I simply want to know the things about you that you already know about me. You know my mind, don't you? My intentions," she said quietly, drawing a little coolness to his temple again in an effort to persuade him. "You have been intimate with me in every possible way, Tom, and now I'm simply asking you to - "

He caught her hand gruffly, holding it still as she froze, startled.

"No," he said flatly, his eyes flashing.

She swallowed hard, unnerved by the cold look on his face; she had always been the cool one, the ice in the presence of his fire, but the rage-tinted blue of his eyes at the very suggestion of her occupying his mind chilled her to the quick of her bones.

"After all," Tom amended, catching her look of dismay and abruptly melting to his usual silky warmth, "don't you already have enough of me, Hermione? My crown," he murmured into her neck, his hands heated along the length of her bare waist as he lowered himself down the length of her torso. "My throne, my power, my-" he broke off as she hissed, his mouth finding the slit of her cunt. "My other particular skills," he laughed quietly, sliding his tongue inside her.

She felt a quiet moan tear from her lips, the sound of it punctuated with the usual breathless gasp.

"Do you think me some sort of bird," she attempted, trying not to groan, "that you can simply distract me with shiny things every time I ask for something?"

"Shiny things?" he echoed, glancing up at her. "Such as?"

"Your crown," she said brusquely, tightening her fingers in his hair. "Your throne."

"Ah, but aren't they so pleasingly distracting?" he murmured back, kissing his way back up her stomach. "Haven't I given you everything you've asked, my Queen?" he whispered to her, licking the dryness from her lips as though to taste the hunger he'd left there. "Haven't I given you a kingdom?"

Hermione shifted her hips against him, luring him inside her as he stretched out her arms, bracing himself against her wrists. He was as irresistible as always; as impossible to refuse as he had always been.

Still - something itched at her, though; nagged.

His opposition was bothersome, however much she welcomed his touch. After all, he'd never denied her anything before; even at his worst, she'd always wanted him for the many doors he'd opened without hesitation, and certainly without refusal.

 _Don't think of it as opening a door_ , she heard him say to her then, the words suddenly creeping into her consciousness.  _Think of it as slipping in through a window._

She blinked, her mind wandering as he kissed her neck.

 _Using your power doesn't always have to be some crude equivalent of bullying your will upon others_ , Tom had said.  _Observation and perception are powerful methods of finessing one's way into another's mind -_

 _The eyes,_  he murmured,  _they tell you something about a person's thoughts -_

Perhaps, she realized suddenly, she shouldn't have had to ask.

"Look at me, Tom," she beckoned sweetly, freeing one hand and reaching up to curl her fingers around the back of his neck, drawing him towards her. He gave something of a little laugh, teasing her again with a shake of his head and his lips at the line of her clavicle, but she tightened her grip on him.

"Tom," she repeated, urgently drawing his head up, "I said  _look at me -_ "

He pulled back, growing rigid under her touch, and for a moment he seemed to have frozen in place, abruptly falling still before he turned his head away.

"Tom," she said, wondering now if she'd made a mistake. "Tom, I just wanted to - "

He dragged his gaze up then, the impact of it searing a line from her neck up, and the blue she'd believed herself so familiar with locked on hers with a sensation of strange, foreign opposition, and she recognized at once that she had erred.

"Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?" he asked coldly.

She opened her mouth to argue, to coax him towards forgiveness - to insist that  _no, no, she'd only wanted to see his face_  - but the moment his gaze met hers, she froze, her mind instantly swallowed by visions.

" _Tom, my darling," said a woman with mad, strange eyes, as Hermione's entire body flooded with something that was at once Tom's own agony, his fury, his loathing and revulsion. "My son, my son who will be King - you will be King, I have seen it, and then what will they say to you? That you are my son, a Gaunt son, the most powerful King, an immortal King - you will rule them all and then no one will laugh anymore, will they?" She gave a strange, blood-curdling giggle, the sound of it raking through Hermione's ears. "My son, the King!"_

_Then the woman's eyes went cold, her body unnaturally stiff, and Hermione, who stood by and watched as the young raven-haired boy beside her went perfectly still, knew for certain she was dead._

" _He's a demon," an old nun whispered, with Hermione and the raven-haired boy waiting behind the door. "He should not have survived this - his mother did not, his father did not, and who is he? And his eyes, his eyes are so strange - the way he speaks, the way he moves, is he not the devil? Is he not sent from hell itself?"_

_A shift, and the boy was no longer a boy. A raven-haired man stood holding a bloodied sword, looking out over an endless field of bodies beneath a murky, shadowed sky._

" _My Lord," said Lucius Malfoy, his voice cracked with disbelief. "How - how did you - "_

" _You will not speak of this," Tom said dully, wiping a crimson stain from his forehead. "You will never speak of this, Lucius. Swear it, or I will leave you dead on this battlefield with the rest of these souls."_

" _I - yes, yes, Your Lordship, of course - "_

" _I am not a Lord," Tom replied, the word gnashed between his teeth as Hermione looked down to see the bloody crown in his hands, plucked from the dead man's head at his feet. "I am a King, Lucius. I am your King, and this, at last, is the throne I was born for."_

" _My King," Lucius said instantly, falling to his knees in reverence, in wretchedness and fear, and Hermione blinked, hearing it as Tom had heard it, the words ringing through his ears in his dead mother's voice -_

" _My son, the King!"_

_It shifted again, and this time Hermione looked directly into Pansy's dark eyes, the heavy crown gone from her head and all her vain pride cast aside as her hair slipped loose over her shoulders, cascading to her waist as she trembled openly before him._

" _My King," she whispered, and Hermione watched Tom press her back on the bed, his lips curling back around the shape of his teeth, the predatory arch of his smile, the flash in his eyes and the hunger, the craving, as if he were looking at a mark, at his prize -_

" _My son, the King!"_

_Then Hermione saw the court as he saw it, with a hazy red tinge above each of the nobles' heads; it was a fire that burned like fear, that flashed and flared and seared, a sensation of something that was at once an incensed desire and an abhorrent, disturbing terror as each of their faces became mangled and malformed; she saw Harry's face laughing - choking, burning, crying with laughter - and behind him, impossible to miss, the image of the crown -_

" _My son, the King!"_

_A snake and a lioness - the snake wrapped around the lioness' neck, the lion's claws dug into the flesh of the snake's belly - and the visions of Hermione's nightmares mixed with his; the red sky, the gutted flame, passion and blood and bone -_

Hermione tore from his mind with a gasp to find Tom staring at her, his touch burning her skin where his fingers clawed into her waist.

"Are you satisfied now, Hermione?" he asked, with that same terrible look in his eyes as she remained frozen, unable to speak; unable to breathe.

"Tell me," he beckoned to her, with a sharp bite of cruelty this time, "did you like what you saw?"

 _You'll never be happy with him_ , she heard Pansy say.  _You will gain nothing from putting your faith in him -_

Hermione shut her eyes.

_This path you're choosing will only bring you misery, Hermione -_

"I'm sorry," she managed, rasping it out, and Tom pulled away from her without a word.

"Tom," she attempted, uncertain what else she could possibly say, but he spared her the wondering. He didn't look back at her calling; didn't turn at the sound of her distress.

She sat up in bed once he'd gone and pressed her hand to the base of her stomach; she paused, dizzily calculating her promises. She'd wanted to see the world as he saw it, hadn't she? And yet now, at the thought of it, of what flowed through his veins -

The thought of it; the  _taste_  of it, the bile, the loathing on his tongue; the hatred he bore in his heart and at his heels and the  _madness_ , the aberration in his blood -

She pressed her hands into fists against her own skin, bearing down against it, and wondered if she could freeze it - make it as numb as the recalcitrant beat of her heart - and draw from the ice in her veins, that no living thing could ever grow.

_Be careful, be careful, be careful -_

_Tom, please!_

"Let's go," Tom said flatly, reappearing before her in his dressing gown and casting his gaze down at her from above. "It's time for you to be a Queen."

* * *

"I wouldn't have believed it possible," Harry laughed into her neck, his voice strained from his admittedly rather athletic effort, "but I swear, you taste even better as my wife."

"Stolen fruit is usually sweeter," Pansy permitted drily. "I think I read that somewhere."

"In a handbook, perhaps?"

Pansy groaned. "If that book is real - "

"Oh, I'm writing it as we speak," Harry assured her, his hand sliding down her torso to rest covetously against the curve of her hip, pulling her close against him. "I'm currently expanding my list of rules, actually, if you have anything to add - "

"One thing," Pansy said, and turned her head to speak in his ear. "When you're making love to your wife," she murmured, biting lightly on his earlobe, "maybe don't give into your compulsion for mindless chatter."

"Mindless?" Harry echoed gruffly, tightening his grip on her. "And here I thought you enjoyed our expository bedroom talks, my Queen - "

"You're terrible," she muttered, rolling her eyes, and he took hold of her hair, pulling it back lightly to bring his lips to her neck.

"Terrible?" he echoed. "Is that truly the word you meant? I have so many words for you, Pansy, and none of them are quite so insulting. For example, I could tell you how unceasingly I burn for you," he whispered to her. "How I long to have you every minute of the day, other tasks be damned. How the sound of your breath," he said, kissing each of the notches, one by one, of the vertebrae beneath her hair, "makes me wish to abandon roguery altogether, and instead pursue a perennial vocation wrapped between your thighs."

"Perhaps you should," she replied neutrally, biting her lip, and he laughed.

"I love that the most," he told her. "The way you try to lie to me. As if I haven't felt your heart beating beneath my fingers," he murmured, tapping lightly on her chest, "or the way your pulse races when I touch you. As if I could somehow not have noticed the way you so clearly want me just as desperately as I want you -"

"And yet here you are," Pansy replied drily, "chattering away. "

He turned her gruffly, settling her on his lap and flashing her his knavish grin before tangling his fingers once more in her hair. He drew her towards him, kissing her - leaving the taste of his saccharine promises, his devastating sweetness on her tongue - and she kissed him back, digging her fingers possessively into his arms as he slid inside her again.

"Tell me something true, Pansy," he said quietly, and she looked at him; at the green of his eyes, and the hazy look of rapture she was certain she bore herself.

"Harry," she said, sighing, and his mouth twitched up at the corners.

"That's a start," he said, and she bit her tongue, shaking her head. "More, Pansy," he beckoned, leaning back expectantly. "Tell me a truth for every lie, or perhaps I'll just sit here and make us both suffer."

"Give me a lie, then," she muttered back, and he chuckled, his fingers lingering at the small of her back.

"You once told me you wouldn't think of me," he mused, running his hands upwards along her spine. "I was positive then that it was a lie, and I'm more than certain now."

"True, I think of you often," she replied. "I think of you constantly; as fondly as I think of the plague, or taxation, or of the health of my lady mother."

"Liar," he accused sulkily, nipping at her lips, and she sighed.

"You know I think of you," she reminded him. "I married you, didn't I?"

"Well, tell me anyway."

"You want me to beg for you, don't you," Pansy grumbled, shaking her head.

"I would never ask that of you," Harry protested innocently. "However, if you happened to  _wish_  to," he suggested airily, "I suppose I wouldn't be too terribly opposed - "

She sighed again, affectionately irritated, and eventually consented to lean towards him, shifting in his lap.

"I know what you want from me, Harry," she informed him. "You want me to tell you that I can't possibly sleep for want of you, don't you? That I dream of you every night. That I long for you, imagine myself touching you, even when you do nothing else but go about your day. That when I watch you perform little bits of nothing with your hands - curl your fingers around a tankard, saddle a horse, or run them through your hair," she murmured, leaning into his touch, "I imagine, instead, the way they curve around my hips, or settle on my thighs, or - "

She reached down, sliding his hand up to her breast and brushing his thumb over her nipple, letting his touch linger there for a moment before he stared up at her in awe.

"You want me to tell you that I have never been touched the way you touch me, and that I never will again," she said softly, cupping his face in her hands. "You wish me to beseech you to never leave me, to always sleep beside me. To  _not_ sleep," she amended, shifting slowly above him and watching his eyes flutter with arousal, "each night, for how badly I want you, that I could never waste a moment on something so mundanely similar to death."

"Apologies, I've lost track. Are these lies?" Harry asked hoarsely, and she pushed him back against the bed, pressing a finger to his lips.

"You want me to tell you that I cannot go a moment without imagining you beneath me, above me, inside me," she whispered, and started to move again, riding him slowly as he clung tightly to her hips. "That when I speak to anyone else I feel my lips are wasted for not being pressed to yours, or that my tongue would be so much better served sliding down your-"

" _Pansy_ ," Harry choked out in anguish, yanking her towards him and rolling desperately over her, drawing her leg over his hip as she laughed.

"Harry," she said back, letting him catch it off the tip of her tongue as he kissed her, and then letting her head fall back with a moan. "You know that I think of you, you terrible rogue."

"I'm starting to think I may have made a terrible rogue of you," he said back, but she kissed him again, arching her hips towards him, and closed her eyes as he brought them both to breathless, dulcet sounds of satisfaction, the two of them falling together in another episode of bliss.

When they caught their breaths, her eyes still closed, Harry buried his face in her hair, breathing in the smell of it. She stroked the back of his neck gently, feeling the joining of his pulse and hers as they slowed gradually to normalcy, held together by the sounds of the quiet night outside.

"Pansy," Harry said into her hair, his voice muffled strangely far away. "We need to discuss something."

She shifted, letting him pull away to look at her. "Sounds serious," she commented, trying not to sound quite as nervous as she felt, and he nodded.

"If," he began, battling his own tongue, and stopped. "If something happens to me - "

"Stop," Pansy interrupted. "Harry, I thought we agreed - "

"If something happens to me, Pansy, and you find yourself with child," he pressed, "we need to discuss what you will do next." She opened her mouth to argue, but he silenced her with a shake of his head. "No, listen to me, Pansy. It's important. If it's a girl, raise her however you like. Ron will take care of you; I'll make sure of it. Deny this marriage and say she's someone else's child if it's easier. Do whatever you need to, Pansy, to stay alive and out of Tom's reach. Do you understand?"

Pansy blinked. "But Harry - "

"But if it's a boy," Harry said, and swallowed. "If you have our son, Pansy -  _my_  son," he clarified, his eyes floating shut momentarily, "then he is a prince of Diagon, and he will one day stand to inherit the throne. I will need you to take him away," he urged. "He won't be safe here, not anywhere, so take him to Durmstrang if you can - hide him, teach him, guide him as I know you can, and then, when he is old enough - "

"Harry," she exclaimed, aghast. "You can't be serious!"

"When he's old enough," Harry continued fiercely, "and when he is ready to fight for the throne that is rightfully his, he can return. As I have done," he clarified, "for my own father. Do you understand?" he asked her. "Pansy, can I have faith that you will do as I've asked?"

"Harry, do you even realize what you ask of me? I can't," she began, and broke off, holding her hand fearfully to her mouth as if she could prevent terror from slipping out of it. "Harry, without you - I don't think I can - "

"You can," he said firmly. "And yes, I know what I ask of you. I know perfectly well, and it is a lonely and terrible thing to be born as I was, and to be used as I was - as we both were. I know it will be difficult. But I must ask you, Pansy, to promise me this," he begged her. "Promise me, Pansy, and I swear, I will never ask you for anything else."

She closed her eyes, somewhere between agony and a general, boundless rage that the world would dare to conspire to part them.

Still; she knew he needed her to be brave.

And while she couldn't give him courage, she could give him something close enough.

"If you die," she said eventually, "I swear, Harry, I'll kill you."

"Yes, good," he exhaled with relief, nodding firmly. "Yes. This is exactly the sort of thing I need you to teach our son."

"I mean it," she informed him bluntly. "I will murder you a thousand times if you have the unforgivable audacity to die, and then I will name our son after-" she paused, thinking of something that would irritate him. "Draco."

"Please don't do that," Harry groaned, shaking his head. "I would really prefer if you didn't. James would be ideal, I think, though if you're so hell-bent on revenge, then at least give him some foolishly referential but kingly name, like Henry-"

But despite all her best efforts, it still seemed too terrible; it seemed so horribly wrong and loathsome that some secret prince named James or Henry might one day be in her arms, but Harry might not be.

"Do you ever wonder whether our birth was a curse?" Pansy asked bluntly, interrupting him. "You could have been a farmer's son. I could have been a blacksmith's daughter. We might have been dirty, happy fools who worked every day of our lives but never worried we might ever be apart - "

"It's almost certainly a curse," Harry agreed. "But what runs in our veins is more than blood, isn't it? Isn't nobility something more than purely a matter of birth? It is duty, honor. Legacy." He sighed, pulling her into him again, and closed his eyes. "We are the unlucky ones who are forced to bear it, and so bear it we must."

"But you are lucky too, aren't you?" she asked him; pleaded of him, begged. "You have luck flowing through your veins, Harry. You are a man who is very good at war, and good at peace, too. A very, very good man," she realized, blinking back tears. "The best one."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Try very hard to raise a son like you," he said, "and I will be satisfied."

She hated him.

She loved him.

She was only ever driven to madness by him.

"You're always making my life so difficult, you terrible rogue," she whispered to him.

She felt him nod; felt the swallow of anguish at his throat.

"I know," he said, tightening his arms around her. "And I am terribly sorry for it."

* * *

There were a number of ways Tom's proclamation of war might have gone.

There was the least helpful, which would have been the outpouring of dissent from the already disgruntled nobles, and which Daphne had advised Hermione to be prepared for;  _you will need to be untouchable_ , she advised, and shooed Lavender away when she brought in a pale grey dress, sending her back for the crimson silk.  _You will never need to appear more queenly than you will today,_  Daphne had said, and draped Hermione with every jewel found in Diagon and the heaviest of her golden crowns, making certain there would be no doubts.

Given that Tom had made little secret of his intent, though, Hermione doubted many would be opposed. Instead, she wondered if the nobles would not simply outwardly express their support while concealing their plotting, anticipating Tom's absence; for that, she turned to Hannah and Lavender.  _Mingle this evening,_  she asked of them, which was not too weighty a request, considering that both were still in need of wealthy husbands.  _Wait until the nobles have drunk their fill and see what they say._

 _Yes, Your Majesty,_  they both replied, and though Hermione would have wondered at their loyalty - wondered whether they had not preferred to serve Pansy, whose blood had provided her unquestionable credentials - they seemed apt enough for the task. Hermione gave them each new gowns, promised them support, and watched them hold their chins higher, knowing they had been entrusted with the loyalty of the crown.

Still, even with her preparation, Hermione had not predicted the truth: that the nobles themselves were as greedy as Tom, and were more than pleased to find that their King would win them the lands and treasures of Beauxbatons, cheering him on heartily as if all had so easily been forgiven.

"We will win what is rightfully ours," Tom called, roaring it to a crowd of euphoric, blood-thirsty men, all of them raising their cups to the man who would lead them to victory. "They would stand against us, but it is we who will prosper for their errors in judgment. We have the better men!" he shouted, and then others called back their agreement. "We have the better land, and the better cause!" Another shout. "We are ordained by the heavens to possess this moment for ourselves, for our heirs, for our legacies - and no one will stand to oppose us!"

At that, the room was boisterous, and Tom turned to Hermione with his broad King's smile, basking in the sound of his support before taking a seat beside her.

"There," he said, under the sound of monstrous celebration. "You should not have anything to worry about while I'm gone. Draco will stay behind to manage any issues with the nobles," he added, as Hermione swallowed hard on her opposition, "and I will not be gone long. Only long enough to take Beauxbatons, to install Karkaroff at Durmstrang under my command, and then I will return. And when I'm back," he added in a low voice, glancing sideways at her, "once I have won another kingdom for Diagon, none of these nobles will possibly stand for Harry."

"Harry?" Hermione echoed, surprised that he had even crossed Tom's mind at a moment like this, when all eyes and pledges of fealty belonged to their King. "Tom, nobody stands for Harry - "

"But nobody hands him over, either," Tom replied moodily. "Neither he nor Pansy, and when I return, those who have harbored him will be punished for their treason. But once they see what I can do - " He trailed off, smiling blankly into nothing. "Once they have seen what I can do, there will be no question. Are you with child yet?" he asked abruptly, turning to her, and Hermione blinked, startled.

"It's been less than a month, Tom," she said carefully, and he shrugged.

"Fine. Then once I return, we will establish our dynasty. Ah," he said, nodding to an approaching Lucius Malfoy. "Excellent, Lucius, there you are - "

Hermione froze for a moment, and then looked down, noticing with alarm how tightly she had gripped the arms of her throne and catching the traces of ice settling against the wood; a sign of her losing her composure. She paused, trying to settle the pounding of her heart, and then swiftly abandoned the effort; she stepped out quickly, waving away Daphne's reflexive motion towards her and escaping into the corridor, struggling for breath.

It had been the best of all possible outcomes, surely, but in some strange way, it was also a jarring reminder; that Tom could so easily mimic the behaviors of ordinary men but he was  _not ordinary_ , and there would be blood on his hands, and Hermione would lay beneath them, touched by his avarice, marred by his insatiability -

"Disappointed with the fanfare?" she heard a voice drawl and gasped, startled by Draco Malfoy's sudden presence. "I've never seen someone race out of a celebration so quickly."

"Don't talk to me," Hermione snapped, glowering at him. "You serve me, Malfoy, and you do nothing else. Do you understand?"

"So entitled for a commoner," Draco commented, folding his arms over his chest. "Have you forgotten that Tom has chosen me to stay behind? You may be his successor, but his choice is clear - it's  _me_  he trusts to maintain order in his court, not you."

"I am your Queen," Hermione snarled again. "You will bow to me, Malfoy."

"And if I do not?" he prompted, shamelessly staring her down.

She knew should not have done it.

She  _should not_ , and yet -

She reached out, taking hold of his throat as her power glowed brightly against his skin, his grey eyes widening in alarm.

"I'm not just a fucking Queen," she hissed. "You know I can destroy you, and yet you stand there and -" she growled, furious. "You stand there and  _provoke_  me, as if you don't care at all whether you should live or die - "

"If you really wanted to kill me," he countered mockingly, struggling slightly to speak as her fingers tightened around his neck, "you would have done so by now - "

"I haven't before because I didn't want the mess of your blood on my hands," Hermione returned furiously, tightening her grip. "I didn't want the problem of the nobles asking questions, or the obstacle of explaining myself to Tom, but clearly, I'm about to change my mind - "

"Do it, then," Draco choked out, taunting her again. "If you really want me dead, Granger, then fucking  _kill_  me, just - just  _do something_ -"

"What?" she asked, releasing him with a mix of bewilderment and alarm, and he staggered back to find the wall behind him, one hand clutching at the red marks of her fingers around his throat as he doubled over to catch his breath.

"Just do it," he rasped piteously, and she stared at him, suddenly unable to breathe. "Just put me out of my misery, Granger, because one of us has to go - in the end, one of us has to destroy the other, or-"

"You fucking fool," Hermione seethed, gnashing the words between her teeth, and he looked up at her, one hand still on his neck as his pale brow furrowed. "You fucking stupid, arrogant, pretenti-"

She broke off as he lunged forward, pressing his lips to hers, and it occurred to her that there were a number of ways to react - to think, to pull away, to stop his heart and his breath and lay him to waste at her feet with a slice of her hand - but she did none of those things; she did nothing, she did nothing at all but pull him against her and taste him, slide her tongue along his and let her hatred dissolve itself there, burning violently at the roof of his mouth. He shifted her back, maneuvering her into the alcove and shoving gracelessly at her skirts - at the magnificent silk of the dress that had been so strategically chosen for this occasion - and the sound of a loud rip in circumstance tore through the deathly silent corridor as she struggled to help him, letting him hoist her up against the wall and fumble to reach the bare skin of her thigh.

They didn't speak, didn't say a word; she wasn't sure either of them were even breathing. She tore at the lacings of his trousers and curled her hand around his shaft only long enough to guide him inside her, yanking him closer, and he shifted her unsteadily in his arms to fuck her with a relentless, ceaseless desperation, the whole of it artless and carnal and a thrilling, excruciating pain of error that burned like acid in her veins.

They heard distant footsteps, voices from afar, but one look at his wild grey eyes told her he wasn't stopping; he shifted one hand from around her waist and held it to her mouth, letting her bite down on his palm to muffle the sound of her gasps as he pressed his lips into the span of her shoulder, letting his own labored breath dissolve into her skin. She dug her nails into the back of his neck, the edges of them biting into the line of his spine as he tugged viciously at her hair, and she knew with each motion of his hips she was witnessing her own descent into madness; her own rapid spiral into delirium; the making of her own personal hell.

She felt her heavy crown come loose; tried to care, and didn't manage it. She yanked at it, tugging it free from her curls, and he helped her untangle it, letting the cold metal fall from both their hands onto the cobbled stone beneath their feet as he plunged into her again - once, twice, and then a final time - to bring them both to staggering, agonizing, exhilarating mania, her head gradually falling limply against his shoulder as he leaned them both against the wall.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes, she thought; couldn't have been long enough to matter for much of anything,  _and yet_  -

In the time it had taken to let him inside her again - so laughably short a time, and still somehow enough to betray everything she knew - it seemed the entire world had shifted.

"One of us," Draco rasped, his chest rising and falling with an unsteady, labored pace, "has to go. One of us has to go, or this will never end. This will never  _end_ ," he repeated helplessly, half-choking on the words, "and I cannot - I can't - "

"Then get out," Hermione said coldly, and shoved him away, picking up her crown and hoping to bleed out onto the prongs of it, making certain to not look back.


	19. Symphony of Conflict

**Chapter 19: Symphony of Conflict**

_**I. Sonata** _

"Be a Queen," Tom said, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Never waver."

"I won't," Hermione replied coolly. "I know what you need from me, Tom."

He nodded, his gaze already distant as he tugged absently at his gauntlet.

"It may be some weeks before I return," he said slowly, his brow stiff with calculation. "I had hoped for that not to be the case, but Karkaroff seems to be struggling with Poliakoff and Krum. He said he had it handled; he  _assured_  me his nobles were under control, but - " he broke off, the muscle at his jaw shifting in irritation; in annoyance, as if the man were little more than a troublesome fly. "In any case," Tom muttered under his breath. "If Karkaroff cannot manage to secure Durmstrang on his own, that may require some additional time away. Beauxbatons is worth next to nothing if Durmstrang suffers from continued uncontained revolts. But you will be fine?" he prompted quizzically, glancing at her for confirmation, and Hermione nodded; sure, at least, of that much.

"I'll be fine. I and your kingdom will be well, and you will have nothing to worry about," she assured him, and at that, he spared her a knowing smirk.

"Nor will you," he agreed. "I can promise you that. I will not die at the hands of the Beauxbatons Queen - and certainly not from some mismanaged Durmstrang insurrection," he pronounced sourly, his expression hardening again with displeasure. "I will not be the one to suffer Karkaroff's incompetence, but every single man who costs me for it will."

At that, Hermione fought a shudder, catching the flash of iron in his eyes and the apprehensive tension that spread white-hot over his knuckles. She blinked back the vision of bodies at his feet - of the crimson tint of the mournful sky, and the fearful look in Lucius Malfoy's face - and tried not to taste it; the blood on his hands, past and future.

She had seen the signs before, hadn't she? And yet, suddenly, it seemed as though she'd seen nothing at all.

"A pity they cannot be warned what they're up against," Hermione commented in reply, shivering beneath the death count that was almost certain to follow, and Tom paused, tilting her chin up to look her in the eye.

"You misplace your pity," he told her, his voice low. He was conscious of the eyes on them, careful not to show distress, but she could see he was coiled and impatient; clearly frustrated with her chosen response. "It is well within the laws of nature for a strong King to earn dominion over a weak one, and it is their ignorance that will bring me home to you unscathed. Or is that no longer what you want?" he asked, challenging her to argue.

She tried not to sound resentful.

She tried, desperately, to keep the bitterness from her tongue.

But she couldn't quite manage it.

"Is one kingdom so small for you now, Tom?" she asked quietly, and he released her, stepping away.

"Yes," he said without elaboration, and then he turned to address his men.

For a moment before he spoke, he stared out over the sea of them. He cast his gaze over the tops of their heads as if he could see something higher, something bigger, and they had only to follow his vision; and it was, Hermione conceded, a stunning, convincing show.

"We will not die today," Tom called to his nobles and soldiers, with all the confidence of a man who knew such a thing to be true. "We will stand at the gates of our enemies and demand what is ours, and that which is our right as conquerors; as defenders and protectors of our realm. We will not die today," he said again, "nor tomorrow, nor any day at all until we are old in our beds, because ours is the cause on which the stars themselves have smiled."

For a moment, entranced by his certainty, Hermione herself nearly believed him.

"This is not the day we die, but the day we become immortal," Tom announced boldly. "For from this day forth, all will tell of our glory. We will live forever on the lips of our children; on the tongues of our sons and our heirs. And from this day forth, none will ever forget what we have won for our home, for our families, for our land - and history," he said firmly, "will forever tell our stories. She will bear the weight of our legacies, and never turn her face from what we have won for us; for our future; for Diagon!"

"For Diagon!" the men shouted back, and Tom turned back to meet Hermione's gaze as the men raised their swords, exuberant in their cause. His blue eyes fell on hers with a strange, unreadable look, neither warm nor cold - nor even as if he were truly looking at her.

Instead, it was as if to beckon her to look closely, that she should commit it all to memory.

As if to let it serve as a promise, lest she ever forget what he was capable of.

They hadn't parted with any whispers of sweetness, nor with any hasty promises of his affections; in fairness, she hadn't expected them to. Tom wasn't riding to his death, after all, and so wouldn't need to clutch her; would not need to cling to her, as a vulnerable man might, out of apprehension or fear. He possessed no fear, she knew, because he had no need for it. Fear was like a prison for softer men; for Tom, he saw it in others and took hold of it, subjected it to his reign, and held it tight in his fist, his blue eyes always surveying the wreckage around him.

He did not bid her a sentimental farewell, only left her with instructions:  _tell me the moment Harry is found,_  he had said firmly, instead of  _I regret having to leave your side._

 _If anyone should oppose my reign under your regency, your retaliation should be swift and without mercy,_ he had said, rather than  _I will miss you while I'm gone._

 _Put aside your childish opposition and trust the advisors I have installed for you,_  he had told her, which was a piteously far cry from  _I love you._  He had looked through her while he said it, in fact, and looked through Draco, and in truth he had only looked forward, only ever forward, and true, it had stung for a moment, but it was now that Hermione unwillingly understood. Now, she could clearly see why she, had she been a man standing in armor, would be swayed to follow this King to the end of the world, too.

Because Tom was not afraid, and he was a champion through and through, and he was power and intimidation and he was more vast than life itself as he vaulted onto his terrifying horse, the creature's mane as raven-black as his own.

"For Diagon!" Tom shouted again, the many swords raised in the air, and Hermione registered the motion of Draco coming to stand obediently beside her, saying nothing. She noticed, too, the way his eyes fell on his own father as Lucius rode at Tom's side.

"For Diagon!" the men called back; the many of them who would soon die for Tom's cause.

"For Diagon," Hermione recited obediently, forcing herself to keep her eyes on her King as he rode fearlessly away.

**oOo**

"It would be so easy to kill him now," Pansy commented, looking out the window. "The main royal road runs right past Grimmauld and all it would take is one well-placed arrow, one dagger thrown at the right angle, and-"

"I told you," Harry reminded her, "it will not be a blade that kills Tom." He shifted to stand beside her, watching the royal army ride past. "Though it would be very tempting as a fun midday activity," he admitted under his breath, turning his head to kiss her cheek.

"What will you do while you wait?" Pansy asked, turning towards him. "Will you help Poliakoff and Krum in Durmstrang?"

Harry shook his head slowly, looking saddened. "I can't," he said simply. "I don't have the means to help them; not yet, and certainly not without showing my hand, or endangering both of us. I can only hope they don't get themselves killed, and that perhaps they can have their lands restored to them when Tom has been deposed."

"Until then, will they simply be spoils of war?" Pansy asked, frowning, and Harry nodded slowly.

"For now," he confirmed regrettably. "But my godfather always said that there are ascents and there are falls. Fortune is never stagnant, and power taken at the expense of others will never stay in any one man's hands for long. Tom will see his defeat one day," Harry promised her firmly, "just as those he has trampled will one day see their rise."

"And what will we do," Pansy murmured, "until it is your time to rise?"

"There are troops to gather, and alliances to form," Harry replied. "Though those, too, will depend on opportune timing."

"And while we wait for that?"

"We'll arm ourselves," he said, shrugging. "We'll strategize, be vigilant, and strategize again, with regular pauses for more vigilance."

"And until such time?"

He laughed, leaning towards her with a shake of his head.

"Until then," he murmured, brushing his lips against her cheek, "we'll go to bed, wife."

"Well," she sniffed. "I suppose if we have nothing else to do - "

"And we don't. Nothing to do," Harry agreed, kissing her soundly, "but wait."

* * *

_**II. Adagio** _

"Have you received word regarding the King's progress on Beauxbatons?"

"I have," Hermione confirmed, glancing wearily around the privy council chambers. "I'm aware that this past month has held very little news, my Lords, but the King has just confirmed that Durmstrang is now securely within his control."

"A month, just to quiet the Durmstrang nobles?" Avery grunted disapprovingly. "Beauxbatons was supposed to be ours in a matter of weeks. How does His Majesty expect to pay for the additional costs of fighting Karkaroff's battles for him?"

"I'm aware that our finances will be more strained than His Majesty initially anticipated, but you know as well as I do that Beauxbatons is worth nothing without Durmstrang," Hermione recited, a dull, practiced speech by then. "Consider that victory an investment, Lord Avery, for when your King has brought the riches of Beauxbatons home for you."

"This is becoming quite a gamble," one of the other lords, Abbott, muttered from his seat. "What exactly are we to do if -" he broke off sharply, biting his tongue, just short of the dangerous implication that the King might fail. "I only meant that there must be a way," he amended, "to expedite the process - "

"To expedite the process of war?" Hermione prompted skeptically, arching a brow. "Careful, Lord Abbott, or you'll chance looking a fool in front of this entire council."

"You are merely a woman, Your Majesty," muttered one of the others. "You cannot know what it is to wage a war - "

"Well, I know one thing," Hermione snapped, glaring around the room, "and it is that every man in this room supported this war when they were promised the prize at the end. You should have known then, and should very well remember it now, that there is no reward without some risk. Yes, this is a gamble," she permitted firmly. "But it was a gamble you all sought. It is this council's job to collectively manage this kingdom, and manage it we will, whatever comes. If our kingdom's treasury falls into disrepair, then that will be the fault of every man in this room as much as it is our King's. Am I clear?" she prompted fiercely.

There was a low, gruff indication of agreement.

"In the meantime, we all await further news from His Majesty," Hermione told them firmly, sparing a slow, searching glance around the room. "And if you have no further inquiries, that will be all for today, my Lords."

"Your Majesty," they murmured in response, bowing their heads, and Hermione waited for them to rise to their feet before turning to Draco, clearing her throat.

"Lord Malfoy," she ventured, lowering her voice slightly, "there is a small private matter of taxation revenue that has been lost in the transition of Grimmauld to your hands. The details of which do not concern the council," she added, barely preventing herself from rolling her eyes as the other nobles glanced quizzically over their shoulders.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Draco replied evenly, and they both waited until the other nobles had filed slowly out of the room, leaving her to glance silently to where he sat on her right.

"Taxation?" he echoed, lifting a brow once the others had gone. "I know of no such issues."

Hermione shrugged. "You should see their faces when I mention numbers. Their eyes," she clarified, gesturing. "They glaze over. Unless it's money in their coffers, they have no interest at all."

"And why would I be interested, then?" Draco asked neutrally.

"You wouldn't. But I find myself interested in where you've been for the past several days," Hermione said, rising to her feet. "You've not been at court for some time, Malfoy, and I don't like you out of my sight."

"Funny," Draco replied drily. "You don't seem to like me in it, either."

"Where were you?" she pressed, skirting his insolent comment and eyeing him with suspicion. "I expect an answer, Malfoy."

"I can't imagine why it would matter. I'm not even a member of the council," he reminded her. "This is my father's seat, which I temporarily occupy in his absence, and more importantly," he drawled, with his airy hint of condescension, "I seem to recall that you were not particularly pleased with my being summoned back to court to begin with."

"I wasn't. But I don't trust you, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "And as your reigning Queen, I expect to be warned when you plan to leave court, just as you would inform your King."

"You oppose this war," Draco noted obnoxiously, glancing down at his fingernails. "It's clear enough, you know, though I seem to remember you singing a different tune when you were still climbing for Tom's throne."

She gritted her teeth, struggling not to lose her temper.

"Just tell me where you were, Malfoy," she ground out again, and he gave a loud sigh, as if he found the whole thing exhausting.

"I was at Grimmauld. You know,  _my lands_ ," he reminded her, "which used to belong to another man, and which, coincidentally, require quite a bit of maintenance you know nothing about. I'm not here to be your pet, Granger," he added irreverently, "and if I wish to go, you cannot prevent me from - "

"The last time you were away from court, a nobleman  _died_ ," Hermione seethed, cutting him off. "Forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled to see you mysteriously disappearing."

"Well, you're not dead, are you?" Draco muttered, glaring at her. "Nor is anyone else, so perhaps you might try to avoid irrational leaps and consider that I merely took a normal, murder-free excursion back to Grimmauld to check on the rents and the lands."

"Fine," Hermione snapped, folding her arms over her chest. "But you will not go again without my permission. At least not until the King has returned."

"Yes, returned from this war you clearly hate," Draco pressed, coming to his feet to join her. "Which, again - you  _knew_  he wanted," he reminded her, meeting her eye with incalculable arrogance. "I warned you, didn't I? That you made him reckless. That he would do this, and cost us, his Lords, in so doing. But you insisted, didn't you - "

"Yes, fine, I knew," she cut in irritably. "But still, I didn't - "

She broke off;  _yes, I knew he wanted war,_ she wanted to say,  _but I didn't know then what war was_   _until I had seen it through his eyes._

"Still. Just because you can control something doesn't mean you should," she pronounced brusquely, unable to prevent her opposition from bleeding into the sound. "I don't see the point of it. They say Kings are chosen, anointed by their blood, but who would anoint a King who would only neglect his own people? What good is a King who puts conquest over stability, and finds glory in leaving men dead?" She paused, stiffening in irritation. "But then again, I am only a woman," she muttered bitterly, "so what do I know?"

Draco made a quiet scoffing sound, as if under his breath he were laughing.

"That's treason against the crown, you know," he remarked after a moment. "Everything you just said, minus the last bit - which is worse, really," he added drily, "because it's little more than a self-indulgent repetition of ineptitude - "

"It's not treason," she protested. "How can it be? I  _am_  the crown. I can say whatever I wish."

"No, the  _King_  is the crown," Draco corrected her. "This, your temporary possession of it, is merely a technicality, and the nobles only accept you now because they know it will end. But even you must know they do not expect you to satisfy them for long."

"I know it," Hermione returned. "I know it perfectly well, and I know dissatisfaction, too. What is it about you?" she demanded of him as he blinked, startled. " _All_  of you - you nobles, you men. You are never satisfied. You want a war, but you don't want to pay for it. You want to have power, but you have no interests in the costs. And even  _with_  this war," she accused, giving into her frustration, "where will it stop? If he wasn't satisfied with Hogwarts alone, he won't be satisfied with Beauxbatons, and who's to say he will ever be satisfied with - "

She stopped, catching a look of curiosity in Draco's eye.

"Nevermind," she amended gruffly. "In any case, this isn't why I wanted to speak to you privately."

"Then why?"

"I need money," she said, not bothering to soften it. "This war is costly, and the nobles are right; I cannot wait on treasure that may never come. I will need to either levy a tax or accept a loan from a wealthier noble."

"Diagon has already been taxed heavily this year," Draco commented, lifting a brow.

"Yes," she agreed. "I don't wish to take any more."

"But, on the other hand," he mused, "if you take a loan from any of these nobles, they will have undue influence over the crown." He paused. "They will have influence over you," he warned emphatically, and she nodded.

"Yes. Which is why I'm only asking you."

Draco blinked, surprised. "Me?"

"Yes. You know what I am," she said, letting her fingers twitch slightly at her sides as his gaze dropped briefly to her hands. "So you know what I can do to you if you betray me."

"Is this a threat?" Draco muttered, making a face. "You've learned a lot from the King, and not all of it good - "

"I gave you the Grimmauld lands," Hermione reminded him. "You owe me."

"I gave Tom my armies," Draco countered, "so I owe you nothing. And besides," he added, frowning to himself as he took a few circular, pacing steps, "the nobles will see this as a power play by me. They'll be threatened if they know I've lent you the funds, and they will soon conspire against me, or suspect me of reaching for the crown myself -"

"They won't know about it. No one will, because you'll keep it a secret."

He stopped, looking up at her. "Or - ?"

"Or I'll kill you," Hermione replied easily. "So I suppose I should amend my previous statement. I am not  _asking_  you to give me the money," she corrected, taking a step towards him. "I am  _persuading_  you it is in your best interest - should you have any fleeting desire to keep your lands, or to continue breathing."

At that, a moment or two passed in silence as Draco's grey gaze narrowed levelly at her.

"Perhaps you do know a thing or two about war," he commented eventually. "You certainly have the stomach for it, don't you? Perhaps you should have been the one to march on Beauxbatons."

"I can't," Hermione replied, impatient. "I have my hands full here, placating whiny nobles."

"Oh, very nice, a death threat and a shot to my sensibilities," Draco snapped, glaring at her.

"What else will I say to you, Malfoy?" she scoffed. "Should I have asked you about your health first, or perhaps written you a poem? I am a monarch as equally as your King," she reminded him. "I owe you nothing, and I can take everything. Everything is fully within my grasp."

"The nobles would oppose you," Draco warned. "I would only have to reveal what you've told me just now, and -"

"So let them oppose me, then. I own them, too - and besides, you and I both know you will say nothing."

Draco grimaced. "You cannot really expect that I will blindly do as you ask."

"I do," she said again, finding her voice toneless this time. "I expect it, Malfoy. I expect that you will not deny me this. And I also know that you will deny me nothing," she said quietly, and though it was mostly a low, deadly threat, it was also a reminder.

A reminder that he had already revealed one weakness, and they both knew it to be her.

He registered her intent with something darker than a grimace, his teeth gnashed firmly together.

"I fucking loathe you," Draco said abruptly. "I have no interest in helping you, nor in seeing you succeed. You know this," he said flatly. "You know this, don't you? That I hate you. I  _hate_  you."

"I know," she replied. "And I return the sentiment tenfold."

Draco pivoted, turning to the door, and stopped with his hand on the handle. He paused there, contemplating it, before turning over his shoulder to look at her, his grey eyes fluttering shut and then opening again to find hers.

"How much do you need?" he asked, the sound of it thick with furious resignation.

Hermione swallowed, managing a nod.

"Thank you," she said, though she wasn't sure why she said it.

**oOo**

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" Harry grumbled, not turning away from the window.

"You're sulking," Pansy sighed, coming over to rest a hand on his shoulder. "You have been since Draco left."

Harry shifted beneath her hand, fidgeting.

"I hate waiting," he muttered. "I hate that I couldn't be there with Poliakoff and Krum. I hate that I'm sitting here in this manor house serving absolutely no use to anyone." His mouth tightened. "I hate that I have done nothing," he said bitterly, "and I hate that I will have their deaths on my conscience because I could not join them. I could not protect them, and they died knowing I would not come."

She tightened her grip on him, trying at once to be gentle and firm. "Harry, you said yourself that you did not have the means to help them. You would have only been beside them when they died; you would have only faced a similar fate - "

"Perhaps I should have died with them, then," Harry snapped, and then blinked, instantly softening as he turned to her. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly, holding his hand out for hers. "I'm sorry, Pansy, I just - I just don't know how to - "

"You forget that I have known you for some time," Pansy reminded him, letting him sheepishly weave his fingers through hers. "As a man, and not just my husband. I know you cannot sit quietly in one place without rebelling against someone, or something. You would have made a very poor nobleman's daughter," she added, hoping to make him smile, and she was relieved to have earned a slight quirk of his lips in the corners.

"True," he sighed. "But there are men being killed, Pansy. I thought it would be more advantageous to wait, to bide my time, but I can only see the death toll rising. I can only see men dying for Tom's cause - a cause which should have been stopped long ago, had I not - "

He trailed off.

"Had I not failed," he finished quietly, and she winced.

"You blame me," she remarked, and Harry blinked.

"No, I don't - "

"You do, a little bit," Pansy said, shaking her head. "And I understand why. If not for me, you might have defeated Tom already. Men would not have had to die for this if I had not been so afraid for my life, and for  _yours -_ "

"I don't blame you," Harry countered firmly; a little  _too_  firmly, she thought, as if he'd already had the same argument with himself. "You were protecting me. You were protecting yourself. I cannot blame you for doing that."

"Perhaps not, and I know you do not wish to, but still, you must," Pansy lamented. "I wanted you alive, Harry, and maybe that was selfish of me. I wanted you  _safe_ , but I did not know then that you barely wish to make it through the day," she remarked drily, "much less an entire lifetime - "

"Pansy," Harry sighed, yanking her into his arms. "Stop. I would wish a lifetime with you - I  _do_  wish it, but - "

"Are you really so sure you want a war?" Pansy whispered, letting the words bleed into the fabric of his shirt as he held her head against his chest. "You say you tire of watching men die, Harry, but they will still only die for you, with you. Couldn't we be happy here?" she begged him, closing her eyes. "This house is fine enough, we're safe here; we could have a life here, together - "

"We're not safe here," Harry corrected gently. "We are  _hiding_  here. We already cannot leave the security of this house's walls, Pansy, and I cannot live a lifetime of imprisonment, not even in my godfather's house. And I cannot subject you to it."

She sighed. She knew as much, and knew it was driving him mad already.

"Malfoy wrote that Tom will be back soon," Harry continued. "Olympe put up a fight, but Beauxbatons fell in the end, as I knew it would." He stopped, chewing his thoughts and the inside of his cheek. "Tom will return soon," Harry exhaled, "and in the meantime, we must be patient. We must wait."

Pansy nodded, swallowing hard.

"Then at least give me back the man I married," she pleaded, pulling away from him. "Give me back my rogue, Harry. This man who stares out the window and cannot help curling his fingers around an invisible sword is like a stranger to me, and I miss him; I miss the reckless knave who stole me back from my lonely life."

"I miss him too," Harry said, his gaze softening again as he looked at her. "And I swear to you, my Queen, I hope to see him again soon."

* * *

_**III. Scherzo** _

Tom returned to his court a different man.

A harder one, if Hermione could have ever believed such a thing possible.

True, he sat at his court as he always did; walked the same halls as usual, and did not seem fazed by the heightened undertones of veneration in the passing offerings of "Your Majesty," and "My King." He wore his court's praise like a medal of honor on his chest, just as he had always done.

His appearance was not much changed, either. He was a little bit leaner than he had been when he left - a consequence of the meager diet on the road, and the hardship of travel and battle itself, which now seemed carved into the hollow of his cheeks - but his expression was the same, his posture unchanged; he carried himself as he always had, and he behaved, publicly, as he always had.

It was only when they were alone that Hermione felt she lived with a stranger.

"What happened?" she asked him, but he no longer seemed willing to indulge her questions.

"Nothing," he said. "A war happened, Hermione, and a war was won. And here?" he asked, his gaze sliding to hers. "Any problems?"

"I - "

She bit her tongue on the truth; that Tom had been gone two long months, far longer than he had anticipated or prepared his court for, and that it had been plenty long enough to stir covert talks of dissatisfaction. That in the time he had been gone, their treasury had been drained, and that she - that  _they_  - were massively in debt to Draco Malfoy; to the lands and wealth of the Grimmauld province, whose caretaker came and went with seemingly little warning or restriction. That in fact, they scarcely maintained the ability to rule their own people, much less those of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and that the nobles seemed to sense as much.

That perhaps upon his return all was well - or seemed well enough - but there was a worrying simmering of something unsteady underneath.

"No problems," she said instead, and Tom nodded, undressing without much elaboration and falling onto his back on the bed, barely looking at her.

"Come here," he said, and there was no affection in it; no hunger.

"Tom," she began, uncertain, and he shook his head.

"I have been gone two months," he reminded her. "Forgive me if I'm wanting my wife in my bed upon my return."

"Yes, I know," she replied, uncertain why she was resisting. "But still, I - "

"You have been alone for many long nights yourself," he noted, his blue eyes rising to rest indifferently on hers. "I thought you would be pleased to see me."

"I am," she insisted fiercely. "Of course I am. I merely - "

"Pansy never refused me," he commented, his eyes falling shut, and Hermione blinked, left stunned by the remark.

"That was her job," she said without thinking, and Tom cracked one eye, lifting a brow in the process.

"Yes," he replied. "A job which I gave to you, didn't I?"

Hermione paused, hoping not to misstep.

"You always said Pansy never was to you what I was," she said carefully. "You said that I was your equal, Tom. You made me your Queen, as she never was to you, and I have served you well and diligently in my role as your regent - "

"Yes, but you are still a wife, aren't you?" Tom said impatiently. "Your regency is ended, and now what is a Queen without a King?"

"Tom," Hermione pressed, clearing her throat. "I have cared for your kingdom in your absence. I only thought that upon your return - "

"I would what? Pat you on the head and congratulate you?" Tom asked brusquely. "We both knew you would be fine, Hermione, but now I have returned. I have returned, and you are my wife, and you have still not fulfilled your part of the deal."

"I - what?" she asked, startled. "What do you mean I haven't - "

"You promised me a son," Tom said, his eyes closing again. "You assured me you would give me an heir."

"I cannot conjure one by magic," Hermione returned sharply, disbelieving, and he turned his head to look at her, eyeing her from where he lay.

"I did not ask you to," he said. "The primitive way will suffice."

"I - " she began, and stopped. "Yes, but -"

"Unless you do not wish to," Tom interrupted, sitting upright, "in which case you will have defied your King as well as broken a promise."

"Tom," she snapped, glaring at him. "I have not refused you. I simply thought you might - " she hesitated. "I had hoped that you might - "

"Run to your arms? Praise you, worship you?"

"You did once," she reminded him, and he gave her a scathing look of annoyance.

"I did not realize I still had to court you," he said bitterly. "Silly me, I thought that putting a crown on your head and power in your hands would endear me to you, but if you require flattery, so be it. Come to my bed, wife," he beckoned, his voice faintly tinged with mocking. "Come here, that I may fill you with my love and adoration - "

"Stop," Hermione growled, and for several long moments, Tom stared at her.

"I am tired," he said eventually. "I've returned from a long, arduous journey. Forgive me if I lack the presence of mind to fall to my knees before you."

"Tom," Hermione attempted, but he gave her a glance she had only ever seen him give his nobles; specifically, the ones who had displeased him. It was a look she had never felt from him before, and now she shuddered beneath the impact, taking it like a blow. "Tom, I only - "

"Wife," Tom interrupted, unflinching. "Undress."

She blinked.

The implications for further argument were agonizingly clear.

So she swallowed, instructed herself to breathe, and slowly pulled at the laces of her corset, never lowering her gaze from his.

_What is a Queen without a King?_

_Unburdened,_  she thought stiffly, slipping out of her dress and taking a step towards the bed.

**oOo**

"I suspect there are financial problems following the war," Draco was saying to Harry in the other room. "More than simply the cost of the war itself. He will not say as much, but he is very often cloistered with Severus, or speaking with him at dinner."

"Severus is not a noble," Harry said quietly, clearly considering these implications. "He is merely an adviser, Tom's private adviser, and if Tom is not sharing his concerns with the privy council - "

"I no longer sit at the meetings, but my father tells me the King shares nothing," Draco confirmed. "He pretends as though everything is fine, but it clearly is not. He rarely speaks to Granger, either," he muttered. "She is far less privileged than she was, or so my father seems to think."

"Has she displeased him in some way?" Harry asked. "You know how Tom distances himself from nobles who have upset him. Perhaps she's being punished."

"He may know of her borrowing money from me by now," Draco said.

"Borrowing from  _me_ , you mean," Harry corrected gruffly.

"Sure, if you prefer," Draco drawled, clearly without any sincerity. "In any case, I doubt he will be pleased with her decision."

"It was a good one, though," Harry argued. "She had no other choice, and concealing it from the other nobles was smart. It probably saved Tom's reign in the long term."

"Still, it was manipulative," Draco countered, "and utterly without honor, like the work of a common swindler."

"Says the traitor angling to bring her down," Harry remarked pointedly.

"Fine. Yes. I never claimed I wasn't a hypocrite. But still."

"Is there perhaps a problem with Beauxbatons? Perhaps it has weakened him - "

Pansy blinked, her attention abruptly caught on something outside the window.

"Harry," she said, and then, louder, "HARRY!"

At once, his footsteps carried heavily from the other room.

"Pansy?" he asked, looking concerned. "What is it? And also, you little minx," he sighed, "stop listening at the doors, you know I'll share it all with you lat-"

"Look," she said, gesturing out the window. "Do you see it?"

Harry squinted into the distance. "On the road?"

"A noble's carriage," she said, and then, forcefully, "a  _Beauxbatons_  noble." She paused, watching the litter, and pointed to the crest on the carriage door. "Living at the Borderlands, my father often had to keep peace with the Beauxbatons nobles; I've seen that crest and those colors often enough to know them with certainty," she explained, chewing her lip, and Harry frowned.

"Okay," Harry said uncertainly. "But why does that - "

"That is the Delacour crest," Pansy informed him, and swallowed, turning over her shoulder to face him just as Draco entered behind them. "That carriage almost certainly belongs to the eldest Delacour daughter, Harry, and I promise you, you would be a fool to let her go by."

"What?" Harry asked, frowning. "But - how do you - "

"The Delacours own most of Beauxbatons' wealth," Draco noted, considering this as he stepped beside them. "They are the most powerful noble family at the Beauxbatons court."

"Yes, and they have  _no sons_ ," Pansy added firmly, glancing around the room. "They have only daughters; daughters with too much money, and too much land, and who cannot legally inherit, and so must - Harry, where's my cloak?" she demanded suddenly. "I need it, I need to go speak to her -"

"You can't go out there!" Harry cut in, aghast. "If anyone recognizes you, Pansy - "

"Harry,  _think_ ," Pansy insisted, knowing she likely sounded hysterical and continuing anyway. "She's traveling to Hogwarts, Harry! To  _Tom_ , whom she surely does not wish to serve. Her wealth will almost certainly be stripped from her, passed onto Diagon, and she will be married to a noble of Tom's choosing - her father has perhaps already been killed - "

"He was," Draco confirmed, and Pansy nodded vigorously.

"You see? She will not want Tom's rule," she determined fiercely. "You must trust me on this, Harry! She will be sympathetic to you, and I promise you now, if we let her go by - "

"She's right," Draco remarked in agreement, turning to Harry. "Lady Delacour would be a valuable ally. The risk of recognizing the Queen is great, certainly," he permitted, "but it would only take a moment to stop the carriage, and I can have my guards keep an eye out -"

"I'll keep my hood on," Pansy added. "I'll be careful, Harry, but you must not let this opportunity pass," she urged him. "You  _mustn't_  - "

"But why should you do it?" Harry insisted. "Why should you risk being seen? Have Malfoy do it, or I will - "

"It has to be me," Pansy said, shaking her head. "It  _must_  be me, Harry."

"Why?" Harry asked, looking anxious. "Why you?"

At that, Pansy took a breath, more certain of that than of anything.

"It must be me, because I know what it is to be sold to the highest bidder," she exhaled simply. "It must be me, because I know what it is to be a woman subjected to a man's rule. She may not stop for you, Harry," she added meaningfully, "but she will trust me if it's my face she sees." She stepped closer to him, taking his hand. "Trust me, Harry," she pleaded softly. "If you must wage this war with Tom, then at least let me win this one battle for you."

At that, Harry blinked; he took a long glance at Pansy, measuring her certainty, and then turned sharply to Draco, who nodded slowly.

"Okay," Harry exhaled eventually. "Okay. But keep your hood on, Pansy." His posture shifted, bolstered now with a prince's confidence. "Let us speak to Lady Delacour."

* * *

_**IV. Rondo** _

"Severus told me you were down here," Hermione ventured, finding Tom's workplace a strangely unfamiliar place after so many months away from it. "What are you working on?"

Tom didn't look up from his cauldron.

"The usual," he said.

"Immortality still?" Hermione asked, attempting to be playful, and he glanced up.

"If I cannot have a son," he replied, "I will simply have to never die."

She wondered if he were joking, but figured she couldn't stomach the answer if he were not.

"You need something, Hermione?" Tom prompted, and she nodded, clearing her throat.

"I cannot find Lady Nott," Hermione said, trying not to sound as concerned as she was. "And then Lady Lavender informed me that her rooms had been emptied. I wondered why, and thought perhaps you might know."

She hoped the answer were not as dire as she suspected.

"Lady Nott has gone back to her husband's estate for her confinement," Tom replied, looking back down at the cauldron as Hermione let out a muted breath of relief. "It is nearly time for her child to be born, and Lord Nott requested that she be permitted to retire from court."

"But she didn't say goodbye," Hermione said, her brow furrowed.

"Lord Nott was in a hurry," Tom returned simply.

Hermione, who knew perfectly well that Theo cared more deeply about his wife's happiness than perhaps anything else on earth, highly doubted that was true.

"I will look forward to having her back at court, then," Hermione said carefully. "Will she be permitted larger rooms, to care for her children?"

At that, Tom flinched, as if the reminder that Daphne carried two babies had physically struck him.

"I have no plans to call Lady Nott back to the castle," he said eventually. "She can raise her children at the Nott estate. I have no desire to see them at court."

Hermione blinked, surprised.

"But Lord Nott will be summoned, won't he?" she asked.

"Of course. He serves me."

"So you would separate husband and wife?"

"It is not uncommon, Hermione. Such things happen all the time."

"Yes, but - "

"You will take Lady Delacour of Beauxbatons as the head of your household instead," Tom continued, clearly leaving her no choice. "She will take Lady Nott's place as a favorite in your service."

"What?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "Why?"

"Because I need you to watch her," Tom replied. "She took too long to arrive here," he added, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Hermione's. "Something delayed her arrival, and I suspect she cannot be trusted."

"Then why have her at court, where she can only do more damage?"

"Because we need her," Tom said. "We need her money."

"But why? You said that borrowing from nobles - "

"I know what I said," Tom snapped, glaring at her this time. "I do not wish to rely on her, Hermione, but obviously I have no choice."

"Why not? I thought that winning Beauxbatons - "

"Beauxbatons is heavily in debt," Tom informed her irritably, and Hermione paused, stunned. "Olympe's royal treasury was drained before we got there. My nobles are owed compensation, and I have nothing to pay them with. Thus, I have no choice but to gain control of the Delacour fortune."

"You didn't tell me this," Hermione said, blinking, and Tom's expression hardened.

"I do not need to tell you anything," Tom reminded her. "I am your King."

"But I am your - "

"I know what you are," Tom snapped angrily. "And I know what you  _think_  you are, but once again, you forget your place. I do not need a partner, Hermione, I need an  _heir_. When it is inevitably revealed that several of my nobles are wealthier than their own King, they will not hesitate to rise against me. They will rise against the crown, and I am vulnerable without a son to inherit my throne. Pansy knew this," he added, hurling it at her. "She knew what she was born for - "

"So you would replace my friends with spies, all because I have the indecency to not yet be pregnant?" Hermione prompted, furious. "And yes, Tom, I know what Pansy was born for, but you know perfectly well that I was not. You  _knew_  this," she flung at him, "and still, you told me you would put me above all others - "

"And I did!" he snarled, taking two steps towards her. "Have you forgotten? I raised you up from nothing, Hermione," he warned, his voice quieting dangerously. "I put you on this throne, and I can drag you down from it just as quickly - "

"What does that mean?" she cut in, staring at him, and he met her gaze without hesitation.

"It means that there are other women in this kingdom who are quite capable of giving birth," Tom informed her darkly, his gaze hardening. "It means, Hermione, that if you cannot give me what I want - if you cannot give me what I  _need_  -"

"I am not some object for you to discard!" Hermione shouted at him. "I am no ordinary woman, Tom! I am not some pretty trinket to smile dumbly at your side, and - "

She froze, startled, as a red heat glowed ominously from his palms.

"Tom," she said, swallowing as she stepped back, physically and tactically. "I understand you are angry. I understand you are frustrated. I know you cannot mean this."

He clenched a fist, the light within it swallowed up between his fingers.

"Someone turned on me," he permitted bitterly. "Someone in the Borderlands, or possibly at Grimmauld - "

"You have Lord Malfoy at Grimmauld," she reminded him, frowning. "It could not have been them."

"Yes, it must have been Parkinson; I should have known. I will deal with it. And speaking of the Malfoys," Tom said abruptly, muttering to himself now, "I will need to placate them. I cannot repay their debts; I will have to give them something else. Draco can wed the Delacour daughter," he determined hastily, throwing it out as if they - both of them, Draco and the Beauxbatons stranger and their collective wants - counted for nothing. "He can satisfy himself with a pretty foreign wife. Knowing that family, their comforts are all that matters. Perhaps Draco will not challenge me if he is too busy entertaining himself in Delacour's bed."

"What?" Hermione asked, swallowing on bitter opposition that rose inexplicably in her throat. "But - but if you give the Malfoys  _more_  money - if you give them more land, perhaps they will only be a bigger threat to you - "

"I have no choice but to betroth our eligible nobles," Tom countered, shaking his head. "I can't repay them. I can only distribute what we have taken from Beauxbatons. And you'll be pleased, I imagine, knowing your hatred of Draco," he added, sparing her a fleeting glance. "You'll have his wife in your keeping, and you can punish them both however you see fit."

Hermione paused, momentarily sickened. "But - "

"I am King," Tom reminded her, not looking up. "I am King. I do not need your permission, and I do not care for your opposition. You may go."

"But  _Tom -_ "

"Go," he said again, turning his attention back to the cauldron, and Hermione froze for a moment, stunned.

Then she pivoted, half-sprinting out the door as she passed through the darkened corridors, making her way blindly through the castle.

"Out," she said flatly to the guards, waving a hand until both sets of eyes at the doors went blank. "Take a walk. Tell no one you saw me."

They nodded, rendered obedient by her will as she burst through the doors without preamble.

"Jesus  _fuck,_ " Draco spat in dismay, nearly tumbling over himself at her entrance. He was clearly in the middle of undressing for bed, stepping out of his trousers and wearing nothing but a look of dismay and confusion, and Hermione said nothing; did not avert her gaze as he reached hastily for a shift, throwing it over his bare torso. "Why didn't the guards announce you? And what the  _fuck_ ," he exhaled, glowering at her, "are you even  _doing_  here - "

"You're to marry Lady Delacour," Hermione said dully. "The King has commanded it."

"I - fine," Draco said, blinking. "This couldn't have waited until I had clothes on?"

"No," Hermione said, and he stared at her.

"Is that it, then?" he demanded, and she paused.

"No," she said, and he stopped.

Stared.

"What?" he croaked, and she shut her eyes briefly before letting them float open again.

"Get in the bed," she said, gesturing to it, and his breath hitched.

"What?" he asked again. "But you - but you're - "

"If you tell anyone I was here," Hermione began, and he groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes, you'll kill me, I get it - "

"I'll  _kill you_ ," she agreed emphatically. "I will murder you with my bare hands, Malfoy. I will tear your limbs from your body and bury them each separately in the woods. I will feed your intestines to the horses of the King's guard. I will take your heart and fillet it, slice it up thinly and serve it to your father as a delicacy, and - "

"Fucking Christ, I grasp the concept," Draco growled, his expression mingled with disgust before he swallowed it, blinking. "And if I don't want to?" he challenged, a last effort at autonomy.

Hermione shrugged. "Then don't," she said.

He didn't move.

"You want to," Hermione pointed out.

"I know," he snapped, incensed. "But I hate you."

"Yes. And I hate you."

"And this is treason," he added, somewhat helplessly. "Adultery. Madness."

"Nothing you haven't done before. Not to mention that it's also treason to refuse your Queen."

"That can't be right."

"And yet, it is."

"But I don't love you," he insisted. "I will never love you."

"Good," Hermione agreed. "I would rather die than love you."

They stared at each other; she curled her hand into a fist as she waited, driving the tips of her nails carefully into her palm.

"I hate you," Draco said again.

"Yes," she agreed.

"But," he muttered, so quietly she almost missed it. "I want you."

She nodded.

"I know," Hermione replied.

He took a step towards her then; unsteady, like a man in a dream.

"I want you," he repeated, and she stepped forward to meet him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him roughly, as roughly as she knew how - with as little care as she could manage, giving into fury and rage and the choked-down sobs in her throat that would not,  _could not_  come - until she had commanded the breath from his lungs; snatched it, and mastered it, from the moment it left the tip of his tongue.

She broke away for a moment; not quite ending the kiss but hardening within it, as the memory of everything Tom had said crept back into the vacancies of her spine, filling her with dread.

 _I raised you up from nothing,_  he whispered to her,  _and I can drag you down again -_

She shifted at the sound of his voice, trying to turn her head - to turn back, somehow, from whatever she'd so foolishly begun - but Draco held her steady, not letting her go.

"What has he done to you?" Draco asked her, whispering it into her mouth.

She pulled away, wrenching out of his grip and backing towards his bed.

"Something he will regret," she replied, beckoning him towards her.

**oOo**

_I take no pleasure in serving this Diagon King,_  Fleur had said, her dark blue eyes narrowed as she glanced between Pansy and Harry.  _If it is indeed your wish to destroy him, then I will see to it that you succeed._

 _You will likely be placed in service to H-_ Pansy stopped, clearing her throat.  _To the Queen,_  she amended slowly,  _and you must be very careful with her. She is the cleverest woman I have ever known, and the most dangerous. She will be watching you closely._

 _I am not unclever,_ Fleur replied firmly.  _And as women,_  she added to Pansy, her French accent sweetly sugar-spun on her tongue,  _are we not natural spies?_

"Pansy," Harry said, his hand closing around her shoulder as she sat quietly, fixing a stitch in one of her shifts. "Pansy, I need to tell you something."

"Has Fleur arrived, then?" Pansy asked, turning to him and rising to her feet. "Is she at Hogwarts yet?"

"Yes," Harry said, though she noted he could not meet her eye. "She's there. She's been betrothed to Malfoy," he added. "But that's not what this is about."

"That's good," Pansy said, nodding. "But we will have time, then, won't we? They'll keep an eye on Tom for you, and in the meantime, everything will be fine. I know it's hard to wait, Harry, but truly, the more resources you have, then - "

"Pansy." His voice was firmer this time. "I am sorry to have to tell you this."

She blinked.

"Tell me what?" she asked. "Is it Daphne? Is she - has she given birth, or - "

"Daphne is fine," Harry assured her. "Malfoy says she is in good health. But Pansy," he continued sadly, "Pansy, your father and mother - "

She felt his voice swim in and out of her consciousness, sounding suddenly far away.

" - Fleur arrived a day later than expected, and you still haven't been found, and it seemed Tom was angry, very angry, and - and I'm so sorry, but - "

 _No,_  she thought, closing her eyes.  _No, no_  -

" - accused of treason, brought before him at court, no jury, and - Pansy, are you - are you all right? Pansy, are you listening? I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry - "

 _You must blame me_ , she had said to him, and wondered if he shouldn't blame her more.

She certainly blamed herself for this.

" - they're gone," he said quietly, taking her hands and holding them to his lips. "I'm sorry, Pansy, but they're gone."

 _The King,_  she heard her mother whisper.  _Are we sure he will be kind to her?_

_Not so sure as that, wife._

She blinked.

Perhaps it wasn't her fault.

And perhaps she knew whose fault it was.

"You must kill him," Pansy erupted suddenly, blinking back her mother's face and staring blankly at Harry. "Harry, you are right. You have always been right." She pulled away, swiping violently at her eyes. "You must kill him," she said again, aching. "Harry, you must take Tom's throne and kill him."

"Pansy," Harry attempted, his green eyes mirroring her pain. "Pansy - "

"And I want to be there," she added fiercely. "I want to look him in the eye when you make a ruin of him, Harry. When he meets his end at your hands," she exhaled, "I want to see his face."

His brow furrowed, hesitating. "Pansy - "

"I will be there," she said, firmly this time, choking on her anguish as she tightened her fingers around Harry's. "I will be there, and I will tell him. I will tell him to his face what a grave error he made when he underestimated me."

Harry looked as though he would argue for a moment, but instead he nodded, pulling her close.

"You will tell him," he promised her, burying his lips in her hair as his voice quieted a thrill of rage in her bones. "And I swear to you now, he will suffer dearly from this, Pansy; from the moment he made an enemy of you."


	20. False Promises

**Chapter 20: False Promises**

_Do not fear beauty; it does not last._  
_Do not fear anger; it will one day pass._  
_Do not fear monsters; their claws cannot hold._  
_Do not fear the future; it will come, yet untold._

* * *

Hermione had once said that she wouldn't lose sleep over the lure of a pretty woman; but that was before she'd known that a woman like Fleur Delacour could be equally as dangerous as she was beautiful.

The moment the daughter of the Delacour fortune arrived at court had been like witnessing the eye of an unsubtle storm; she had swept in with a spectacle of splendor, dressed in soft, lovely materials with cuts so precisely formed to her willowy figure that her very entrance to the room put every other woman of Tom's court forcefully to shame. The Lady Delacour was inhumanly beautiful, a series of glimmers of silvery-blonde that seemed enriched by every ray of light, with dark blue eyes that fell keenly on those around her and an eternal smile that never left her face - despite the wrongs that Hermione was sure had been done to her. Fleur Delacour was a woman of extravagant wealth, after all, possessing some of the richest lands in any kingdom, who could not inherit her own birthright; whose own father had been killed by her new King's hand. And still, she never faltered, never wavered, and Hermione watched as the court she'd fought so hard to win tumbled over themselves for the new darling from Beauxbatons, who seemed capable of seducing them all with only a look.

Rumors preceded Fleur, too, which didn't help. It was said that many a man had abandoned his wife to pledge his allegiance to her, and whether this was because she was wealthier than all of them or simply more lovely, it did not matter; she struck helpless fear into the women, and struck the men dumb for adoration. On Draco's arm, Fleur made them a perfect, shining couple, always smiling and laughing in their gleaming, pale-tinted beauty, but it was no great relief to anyone. Hermione was helpless but to watch them dance where she herself had once been favored, and Tom could not keep himself from staring; could not keep himself from laughing while in conversation with Fleur, or leaning towards her when she spoke. He had warned Hermione to watch her, cautioned her not to trust the siren from a foreign land, and yet he now seemed helpless in her spell, like the adoring prey of a faerie queen.

"Your Majesty," Severus would attempt, stepping in close to speak to him about something Hermione knew to be of pressing importance, but each time Fleur was in his presence it was as though Tom couldn't hear a word.

"Later, Severus," Tom would say with a clipped tone of impatience, at once turning back to Fleur. "Apologies, Lady Delacour - you were saying?"

"Your Majesty honors me," she would murmur with her sweetly lilted accent, coyly lowering her gaze, "but I would hate to cause your court any distress for my foolish unimportance."

"Nonsense," Tom would laugh in reply, nudging Severus. "It can wait, can it not, Severus?"

And then, predictably, Hermione would watch Severus' jaw tighten, his grim expression going blank with practiced reservation.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he'd reply, his teeth gritted as he turned away.

But it seemed to Hermione that Fleur was not the innocuous flower for which she was named. The woman was always intently listening, always showing up when Hermione felt most in distress, and Hermione was left with the strangest, most intensely alarming feeling that perhaps Fleur's beauty and charm were simply pieces of an elaborate lure. There were moments, whenever Fleur's mind was occupied and she wasn't quite so firm in her armor, that her mask would slip; when Tom would turn away, shifting his attention momentarily to something else, and Hermione would catch Fleur's eyes falling on the King's silhouette with a cold, rigid hatred. It was then, in those brief, careless slips, that Hermione knew that all had not been forgiven, even though her smile would return in an instant at his attention.

For all Fleur's delicate pretense, Hermione knew as firmly as she knew anything that the Lady Delacour was no loyal subject of the King.

"I should not have given her to Draco," Tom lamented, falling back in his throne with a laugh, just parting from Fleur's company to sit for dinner. True, the two of them never spoke for long, and there was nothing specifically improper about Fleur's attention - after all, it was not as if anyone could refuse if the King himself opted to speak to them, much less a woman in Fleur's position - but Hermione still swallowed hard on apprehension, violently clearing it from her throat. "She's wasted," Tom muttered with a shake of his head, "on a man who will do nothing but indulge in his own wealth."

"But who else would you give her to?" Hermione asked neutrally. "Draco is by far the most eligible of your remaining unwed nobles. There would be no one else."

Tom didn't look at her; his eyes were still on where Fleur danced, her head bent low in deliberate, coquettish reverence. Hermione, who'd observed Pansy and Daphne's artful poise often enough in the past, knew the signs of a woman who was aware of a man's eyes on her, and while Fleur did not look up at Tom, Hermione knew she didn't have to. Hermione could see by the upturned curve of her mouth that Fleur knew perfectly well the King was watching each sway of her hips.

"I didn't mean that I'd give her to someone else," Tom said after a moment, and took a sip of wine, smiling slightly as Draco lifted Fleur in the midst of a volta. "It was just a comment." He turned his head, regarding Hermione coolly. "You have a jewel to lead your ladies, my Queen, which is all I wish for you, of course. I hope she is proving useful."

 _Your Majesty?_  Hermione heard Fleur ask in her ear, and recalled again how the words sounded so different when they were said to her and not to Tom. For Tom, Fleur was breathless, the words practically falling from her lips, but for Hermione, they were cool and restrained and skeptical; a perfunctory offering at best.

 _She is useful,_  Hermione tried to say, but couldn't manage it; not when the words  _she is dangerous_  were so ineloquently placed on her tongue.

Instead, Hermione nodded, opting for the safety of silence, and the dance ended, Fleur falling gracefully into a curtsy. She nodded to Draco, her betrothed, but let her gaze slip sideways to Tom, as if she could not help herself; as if she were drawn to him, helplessly, and her eyes were for him alone.

And Hermione watched, painfully stricken mute, as Tom did not look away.

Tactically, Hermione knew that Fleur would create a powerful man with her marriage; that much was clear. The inheritor of the Delacour fortune and lands would be formidable, fully capable of challenging the crown by virtue of manpower and money. But now, it occurred to Hermione with a sickening lurch in her stomach that as a result of Fleur's post-war value, the man who had the most to gain from her marriage was, in fact, the King of a debt-ridden kingdom.

"You already have a wife, Tom," Hermione murmured to him, and Tom glanced at her, lifting a brow.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "I have not forgotten." He sipped his wine again, letting it settle on his lips before moistening them. "I find that it is rather impossible to forget."

Hermione shuddered, remembering that he had once had a wife before her, too.

 _I raised you up from nothing,_  his voice whispered to her,  _and I can drag you down again -_

"What is she promising you?" Hermione asked him, still careful not to move her lips, so that the court below would not notice her speaking. "You warned me not to trust her when she came here, Tom, and now I should remind you of the same. Be wary of a woman who would make you false promises," she added, reaching out to reassure him with her touch. "There will be many who aim for your throne, and I would hate to see you distracted by a woman's pretty gifts for duplicity."

At that, Tom stiffened beneath her hand, turning to stare at her.

"Funny you should say that, Hermione," he murmured, and said nothing else.

"Something is bothering you," Draco commented later, merely lifting his hands as Hermione fumbled with the ties at his trousers. "You seem much more carnivorous than usual."

"Do you want to talk right now," Hermione muttered, "or do you want to take your clothes off?"

"Neither, actually," Draco retorted, "not that you've given me much choice." He stopped her hands firmly, holding them still. "I still find this to be supremely unwise," he added to her, sounding outrageously grave, as though she might have somehow failed to consider the consequences before that very moment. "When it was once or twice I allowed myself to be careless, I readily admit that, but you and I both know the King wants -  _needs_  - an heir." He paused, clearing his throat. "I don't wish to wonder if I'll lose my head, in the event your future prince comes out blond - "

"It won't," Hermione said, unthinking, and tugged again at the fabric of his trousers, but he stopped her, forcing her to look at him.

"What do you mean," he asked quietly, "it  _won't_?"

She didn't look at him.

"Granger," he ventured forcefully.

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. Your Majesty, then, if I  _must -_ "

"Yes. You must."

"Is this 'it won't' business a matter of illegality,  _Your Majesty_ ," he prompted irritably, "or is it simply witchcraft?"

"Stop calling it that," she snapped. "I'm not a witch. I'm a Queen."

"Fine," Draco muttered, pulling away from her. "Fine, so you're a Queen. But you'll be a dead Queen very soon if you don't give the King an heir," he said, and it sounded very much like a warning, only she blinked it back dazedly, bemused as to why he should care. "You can't possibly mean to tell me that you are deliberately preventing your pregnancy, can you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Hermione replied, stiffening. "It's none of your concern."

She wanted it to end there.

It didn't.

"He's getting desperate," Draco said, staring at her. "And if something should happen, Granger, I don't think you can afford to saddle yourself with his anger. You and I both know your position isn't nearly as secure as it once was, and - "

"What do you mean 'if something should happen'?" Hermione demanded. "What would happen? He married me. I am his wife. I am his Queen."

"Another woman was too, before you," Draco warned, as if this, too, had somehow not crossed her mind. "And other women have been put aside or killed for less. Why would you gamble this?" he pressed, taking one step closer, as if he would take her by the shoulders and shake her. "Why on earth would you not simply give him a son? You'd secure your life, and your throne, and all of it without even a death threat to me - "

"He would own me," Hermione replied simply. "You can't understand what it is for a woman; he would own me, and I would be responsible for - " She closed her eyes, hearing the strange-eyed woman's terrible voice again in her head;  _my son, the King!_  "I would be responsible for giving him something to corrupt," she exhaled. "Something of mine. Something that can breathe and bleed and cry, and I can't - I don't wish to - "

She broke off, swallowing, and glared up at Draco.

"I don't want to have this conversation with you," she said flatly. "I understand your concern, but I assure you, I will not be bearing your child, nor his. At least not yet; not now. And if you wish to refuse me," she added, not looking at him, "then refuse. You know the circumstances of this arrangement, and they haven't changed. This," she said, gesturing to him, "means nothing to me. It can end any time."

She waited for him to argue, or to express indignation, but he didn't.

For a moment, he only looked at her.

"The King watches Lady Delacour very closely," he commented, and Hermione fought a grimace.

"Yes. I know."

"Your position is being challenged," Draco said carefully, and again, Hermione made a face.

"I don't need you to lecture me," she snapped, but he didn't stop.

"You're losing your influence," he continued. "Everyone can see it. All of the nobles are watching it happen - "

"Yes, and they are watching you fail to hold the interest your wife, too!"

"She's not my wife," Draco said tartly. "Not yet, anyway - "

"And why the delay, then?" Hermione retorted nastily, rounding on him. "You have the King's command, you have the woman here; why aren't you married yet? Why haven't you taken her as your wife? Is it because she doesn't want you?" she taunted. "Is it because she can so clearly see that you offer her nothing, and that you cannot help her, you cannot help her at all but still she - but still - "

She broke off, faltering to a halt and clutching at her aching chest, forcing a terrible, acidic hatred from her throat as Draco said nothing, his fingers only twitching once, as if to keep his hands at his side.

"Fleur and I cannot wed yet," Draco said slowly, "because the King doesn't want to give her up, and you know that is the truth."

"Shut up," Hermione snarled, closing her eyes. "Shut  _up -_ "

"Give him an heir," Draco urged, stepping closer. "Give him what he wants, Granger. Do it and your place will be safe. Do it and your  _life_  will be safe - "

"He can't kill me," Hermione retorted dully. "He wouldn't dare."

"He is a man who very often gets what he wants," Draco reminded her. "He was a man who once wanted you, and you saw how that went for your predecessor - "

"That was different," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I did that. I  _did_  that to her."

"Even if that's true, is it really wise," Draco prompted, "to underestimate your rival now? The Queen before you underestimated a woman in her service once," he reminded her brusquely. "But no one on earth is secure, least of all a Queen without an heir. A Queen married to a ruthless man. A man who will not stop," he told her forcefully, reaching out to grip her shoulder, "and who  _does not care_  - a man who didn't weep at all for the loss of his first wife and who will certainly not shed a tear when you're gone - "

"He is not a man," Hermione cut in, unable to think of anything else but the words  _when you are gone_  and still,  _I rose you up from nothing_. "He is not a man. He is a King."

Draco gave her a very sad look; a look that might have been tender, had it not been burdened with bitter admonishments that went unsaid and a striking, terrible pity.

"All the same," he exhaled, stepping closer and curling his hand around the back of her neck. "All the same. Now is the time to arm yourself, Granger. To protect yourself. This was a war you waged from the start, and you still haven't won. You can't surrender now."

"You men," Hermione snapped, infuriated. "All you think about is war."

"Everything is a war," Draco replied. "To think otherwise is to suffer a delusion."

"I'm here in your chambers; I've been in your bed," Hermione hurled at him, glaring. "And it didn't occur to you to consider that I already suffer delusions?"

Draco's expression soured, his grey gaze narrowed with irritation.

"Do you want me or not?" he prompted, stepping away again, and she scowled.

"I do not," she said flatly.

He waited.

And waited.

And then she sighed, turning around, and gestured to her corset.

She stood there until she felt his fingers on the laces, his hand smoothing down the curve of her back, and closed her eyes when she felt his lips on the line of her shoulder. She drew his arms around her, pinning them around her waist, and then stayed perfectly still, feeling the pressure of his inhalation at her spine.

"Do you really think I'll die?" she asked him, and felt his chest hitch, hesitation snatching at the shape of his lungs.

"You seem very difficult to kill," he replied after a moment of consideration, his voice muffled into her skin.

She nodded, taking a deep breath, and turned in his arms.

"Good," she said. "I will be."

* * *

The ride to the Nott estate left Pansy sick with worry, trepidation torn and twisting in her stomach. It seemed that each day brought a new risk, and while each one was fully necessary, she grew less and less able to stomach it; each moment that Harry tossed and turned beside her or got up to pace the floor, it seemed Pansy grew more and more exhausted.

Tom's reckoning was coming.

She could taste it on the wind; but rather than sweeten in her mouth she felt the knowledge of it burning like bile, wondering how much longer they could stand.

 _Are you sure?_  she had asked Harry, suffering again the knots in her stomach.  _Are you sure Theo can be trusted? Are you so sure you won't be betrayed?_

Harry had nodded.  _Nott has his own cause to be angry with Tom now. And Daphne is so loyal to you, Pansy, that I don't think he could choose any other side._

Daphne, at least, was a bright spot in the midst of tumultuous apprehension, her cheeks bright as she and Theo met Harry and Pansy at their arrival. It would never be appropriate to embrace a Queen, Pansy knew, but seeing as she was one no longer, she threw herself into Daphne's waiting arms without hesitation, nearly collapsing against her.

"Come in," Daphne said with a laugh, beckoning over Pansy's shoulder to Harry and hurrying them inside. "I'll have some ale brought for you inside - "

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked Theo, who shook his head slightly.

"Still playing fanciful pretend with his wife-to-be at court, as agreed," Theo replied. "I didn't think it worth it to call him here yet. We still have a few days to discuss our plan of action, and I don't have a sufficient excuse in mind at the moment."

"How is Fleur?" Pansy asked, sweeping her wind-tangled hair from her face. "Is she safe?"

"She's more than safe," Theo replied, with a wry look at his wife. "She's got the King wrapped helplessly around her finger, actually, to hear Draco tell it."

"She does?" Pansy asked, and frowned, her mind instantly drifting to Hermione.

She wondered how Hermione liked the taste of it - of another woman in her service dangling herself before the King - but determined immediately that it brought her no pleasure to consider. She shuddered, shaking the feeling of repulsion from her chest, and turned back to Daphne, slipping one arm around her waist.

"You're looking well, Lady Nott," Pansy said, utterly in awe of her. "Your waist is already tiny again!"

"Inheritance from my mother," Daphne sighed, shaking her head. "To hear my father tell it, she was so lovely after giving birth to me that he could not help himself from doing it all over again for my sister."

"A relatable pursuit," Theo called to her, and Daphne shook her head.

"Stop," she said firmly, though she smiled at his broad, insolent grin.

"I was so thrilled when Harry told me of the birth of your son and daughter," Pansy told her. "I regret that I couldn't be here with you at the time, though I don't think I would have been much help to you."

"Neither was Theo," Daphne assured her. "He came storming in like some kind of madman. The midwife was in such a state -  _utterly_  frantic, insisting that it was women's work and completely improper for him to be in the room with me laying there so undignified - "

"And what did he say?"

"He swore at her, can you believe that?"

"I can, actually," Pansy replied drily. "I can see it quite clearly, in fact."

"Well, what is the point of being rich and well-born," Theo complained, "if I cannot do whatever I want to?"

Daphne and Theo led them into the dining room at Nott Manor, offering them an extensive meal and urging them to eat and drink. Harry and Theo, caught up in conversation about the impending arrival of Ron and his brothers, ate well and easily as Pansy sat beside Daphne, picking delicately at her food.

"You seem worried," Daphne noted, and Pansy looked up, relieved at the opportunity to cease her poorly attempted pretense of eating. "Are you well?"

"I'm nervous," Pansy admitted, glancing up at where Harry's head was bent towards Theo before turning back to Daphne. "I worry about Harry, about me, about you, about Fleur, and Theo and Draco - even about Hermione." She paused, shaking her head. "I never really believed I would say that, but there it is. She will inevitably have to lose, won't she?"

Daphne nodded slowly. "I hoped you would say that," she said quietly, and Pansy blinked, surprised. "I know she has long been a danger to you, Pansy, but she is not your enemy."

"I wish she were not," Pansy said, unsettled again. "Though it's hard to look at her any other way."

"But you do," Daphne reminded her gladly, reaching out to cover Pansy's hand with her own. "And that makes you a stronger woman than you believe."

They sat in silence for a moment as Pansy considered this, relaxing slightly under Daphne's reassuring touch.

"May I ask you something?" Daphne prompted, and Pansy nodded. "Will you be godmother to my children? My son, of course," she said, "but especially my daughter."

Pansy blinked, touched, and clutched at Daphne's fingers. "I would be honored," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she cleared her throat of excess emotion. "Though, out of love for you, I would advise you to choose someone slightly less… disinherited."

"Only temporarily," Daphne assured her. "And really, it's rather selfish, but I would like my daughter to have a royal godmother. Just as I look forward to serving in your household again," she added blithely, "should you choose to have me."

"Of course I would, given the chance," Pansy said, making a face. "But who says I will ever be royal again?"

Daphne's gaze drifted over to where Theo and Harry spoke, gently inclining her head.

"Oh, only these foolish men we married," she murmured, giving Pansy a devilish look of certainty. "Funny these young men and their rivalries," she added, gesturing to them. "I would never have thought I would hear a kind word from Theo about a Peverell, and yet - here we are."

"Committing the very crime of treason you warned me about," Pansy added in a low voice, and Daphne gave her a strange look.

"Yes, but the time for lurking in the shadows is passed," Daphne reminded her. "The King only grows more unstable. Draco says it is unmissable; he is obsessed with you, obsessed with Harry, obsessed now with a new woman, and of course, with his need for an heir -"

"I would very much like to bring him down," Pansy admitted at a mutter, "but I can't rid myself of the feeling that something terrible awaits." She paused, glancing at her intertwined fingers, and then looked up to meet Daphne's hazel eyes. "You should have been Queen," she whispered to Daphne, chewing her lip. "You're never afraid."

"Well, I didn't have the very great misfortune as to be given to a King, or to love a prince," Daphne said, her voice light and playful. "Though I'm certainly not complaining."

Pansy, however, said nothing, one hand dropping to the queasy motion of her stomach.

Daphne's gaze followed her hand, alighting delicately on the gesture.

"You know, I've come to know something about what it means," Daphne remarked softly, "when a woman who glows like you do, and whose face is ever so slightly fuller, can't quite bring herself to eat." She leaned forward, gently cupping Pansy's cheek in her hand. "You were always so beautiful, Pansy," she murmured, her hazel eyes warm, "but it's a different sort of beauty now, isn't it?"

Pansy shut her eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and Daphne sighed.

"Does he know?" she asked, inclining her head to gesture to Harry. "Have you told him?"

"I'm scared," Pansy admitted, flinching. "I am terrified, Daphne. I've never been so scared before, ever in my life - "

"Why?" Daphne asked, frowning. "This is wonderful news, Pansy - "

"I may lose him," Pansy whispered fearfully. "Harry. I may lose him, and I can't carry his legacy alone. I cannot raise his child alone. I cannot, I  _can't -_ "

Daphne squeezed her arm carefully, leading her out of the room as Harry looked up, frowning slightly with concern as they left.

"Pansy," Daphne said firmly, her hand slipping to Pansy's wrist and then down to the tips of her fingers. "I know you're afraid. I know it feels like too much."

"I can't decide what would be worse," Pansy confessed, her chest shaky with withheld sobs. "If I'll only fail him and give him a girl - or if it is a boy, a boy who will look like him, and who will bear his same hardships - and what if I can't make a man of my son without him, much less a King?" she ranted, vigorously shaking her head. "What if I - what if I can't - "

But Daphne cut her off, taking hold of her face with both hands.

"We all live in fear of something, Pansy," she said firmly, her gaze never wavering. "Isn't this one worth it? Isn't this the noblest fear you can have, that for having loved someone as fiercely as you have, you can help carry on what he's begun?"

"But what if I lose him?" Pansy asked desperately. "What if I fail?"

 _Don't bend,_  her old voice whispered,  _don't break -_

But she was shattered now, her heart thudding beneath the old fears;  _what if I fail, what if I fail, what if I fail -_

"You will not fail," came Harry's voice behind her, his silhouette appearing in the midst of Pansy's panicked gasps. "You cannot possibly fail me, Pansy."

Daphne gave Pansy one more look of certainty, sparing her a firm nod, and slipped away, permitting Harry to take her place in holding Pansy steady.

"I'm sorry," Pansy whispered to him, letting him take her in his arms, and he gave her a strange, sad sort of laugh.

"Sorry, Pansy? For what?" he asked, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Sorry that you've made me happier and more fulfilled than any careless rogue ever deserves to be?"

"I'm sorry that I can't be as brave as you," she admitted. "That I've been afraid for my whole life, and each time I think I've moved forward, that fear can no longer hold me back, I find myself trapped by it again, and  _again -_ "

"I'm not unafraid," Harry told her firmly, his grip on her tightening. "I fear so many things, Pansy. I cannot even tell you how many times I've been so scared I can scarcely breathe. But this," he said, pulling away to look at her, "this is not something to fear, my Queen. This - that I am having a baby with the woman I love, with the woman whose love I've so long fought for - is the best news that I could ever receive, and I would hate for you not to be as filled with joy as I am. A baby," he said rapturously, and she caught the look of awe in his jewel-toned eyes. "A  _baby_ ," he repeated, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Ours."

"Yes, ours," Pansy grumbled, sighing. "A truly frightening combination."

At that, Harry grinned broadly, scraping a hand back through his hair before dropping to his knees before her, wrapping his arms around her hips. He rested there for a moment, sparing a series of silent breaths in private veneration, and pressed his lips to the material at her stomach.

"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes as she rested a hand on his head, comforted by his closeness. "Thank you," he repeated to her, his voice thick with wonder, and then Pansy closed her eyes, too.

"You're welcome," she tried to mutter wryly, but it didn't leave her tongue that way.

Instead it was rich and velvety-soft, like she'd spent her whole life waiting to say it.

* * *

Hermione sat up in bed, reaching down for her shift as Draco leaned over, brushing his lips against the line of her spine.

"I'm leaving again," he said, not pulling away as she went rigid beneath his touch at the news. "For a few days. I have something to take care of."

"Fine," she replied stiffly. "Go, then. I've had more than enough of you these past few nights."

He said nothing.

She sighed, giving into an irritating sensation of guilt, and turned to face him.

"I don't think Fleur is your friend," she said; a generous warning, in her view. "I think she has allies somewhere. Perhaps back at Beauxbatons, or maybe in Durmstrang, I don't know. I think she is conspiring, somehow, and I can't prove it, and I don't know what her goal could possibly be, but I know for certain that she would rather have the King than you, and - "

"Are you worried for me?" Draco asked, his tone slightly amused. "Your flavor of hatred can be so deeply unpredictable, Granger."

"Did you really think I'd be so stupid that I couldn't see what's in front of my face?" Hermione prompted, annoyed. "You think I don't see her angling for the King's favor - for my husband's favor - even without your silly little warning? What's worse is that he's helplessly distracted," she added, furious. "If not by her, then by the missing Peverell; but either way, he can no longer bring himself to focus - to be tactical, to be clever, or even simply to be calm. The nobles are unhappy and he doesn't seem to care at all; he's too busy spending money we don't have to search every inch of his kingdom for Harry and Pansy" -  _I have to find them_ , she heard Tom say endlessly, stabbing another knife into the scripted letters of Grimmauld,  _or else I will never be able to sleep -_  "and otherwise too taken with Fleur to notice the unrest in his court -"

"Yes," Draco agreed. "But that is by design."

Hermione paused, stumbling to a halt.

"I learned it from you, actually," Draco mused, absently drawing patterns on her back. "The King can be so predictable when a woman's approval is dancing so sensationally in front of him, so naturally it seemed a rather apt card to play. Not to mention that Fleur is distressingly skilled at it -"

"What?" Hermione asked, bemused. "But - but she is already betrothed to you, and - "

"I'm leaving soon," Draco said again, and she frowned, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. "I'm leaving, Hermione, and you should know that when I return, I will not come alone. I warned you to protect yourself once," he added, shaking his head as if he still hadn't figured out why. "I am warning you once again."

"I - what is this?" Hermione asked brusquely. "Is this a threat? What do you mean you won't come alone?"

"It's not a threat. It's the truth. The King is no longer fit to rule," Draco informed her. "As you yourself seem to see. He has shown he has no loyalty to his own Loyalists, nor any responsibility to his country. His priority is himself. So, since we do not share his interests, we will simply depose him."

"Who is 'we'?" Hermione demanded. "Who will you return with?"

"The missing Peverell, as you so rightly called him. Harry." The name physically struck her. "And others who support his cause."

"But your father," Hermione began, and Draco shook his head.

"He has nothing to do with this. He'll likely oppose me. I've accepted it."

"But - "

"Tom is unstable. He is unpredictable and dangerous, but above all else he is greedy. You know it yourself. You know it will not stop with this war. You know he won't stop until he has won heaven and earth for himself, and all our men are left dead in the process."

"Malfoy, you - you can't - "

"I realize this puts you in a difficult position."

"Me?" she asked, startled. "Not me - Tom will kill  _him_ , Malfoy. Tom will kill all of you."

Draco shrugged. "That's the risk."

"Harry will  _die_  - "

"It's a possibility, yes, but - "

"No," she said painfully, shutting her eyes. "No, I mean he will die for certain if he does this; if he even attempts it. He will die because he swore something to me once, and if he breaks his promise, it will cost him his life."

"What?" Draco asked, slowly sitting up. "He has said nothing - "

"He swore on his life that he wouldn't challenge Tom for his throne," Hermione confessed, swallowing hard. "He faces certain death, Malfoy. There is no question that he will die."

Draco blinked, and then -

"It doesn't matter," he said, immediately casting aside his concern. "This is not his cause alone. Tom is outnumbered, and whether Potter knows he will die, he is certainly willing to chance it. We all are, whatever it costs us."

Hermione blinked back a sky of red; a sea of bodies as far as the eye could see.

"Don't do this," Hermione said, her mouth suddenly dry. "Malfoy, I beg you,  _do not_. You can't come out of this alive. This is doomed to fail, and I - "

"I will do this," Draco said simply, shaking his head. "I must." He paused, considering her with his level grey gaze. "And you may choose which man you stand beside when the time comes."

"Why should I stand beside any man?" Hermione asked furiously. "What man has ever stood by me?"

"All the same," he said, not looking at her. "You can choose."

"Why did you tell me this?" she demanded. "I'm Tom's wife, I'm his Queen. I can ruin you. I've always been able to ruin you, and now - "

"You thought he loved you. Perhaps he did once. But now you see what a curse his love is," Draco said, turning to look at her, and knew that she knew it; she was certain he could feel it in the icy bite of fear in her touch. "Still, if you prefer his crown to your freedom, or to the life you could have with someone else, then so be it. That's your choice to make."

"Someone else," Hermione echoed, trying to settle the unsteady pounding of her heart. "Like who?"

Draco sighed.

"Don't play stupid, Granger," he scoffed. "I already know you aren't. Who else would I mean?"

"But you could have Fleur," Hermione said, disbelieving. "She is everything you could want, Malfoy, and she is already yours - she is wealthy, beautiful, intelligent - "

"Yes, but there is one unforgivable thing she is not," Draco said neutrally, as Hermione held her breath, certain what was coming and as yet uncertain whether to strangle him or bury her face in his chest and sob. "And that, much as I truly loathe to admit it, is you."

"You hate me," she reminded him, stunned. "And I hate you."

"Yes. True. What we have is very mutual."

"Don't," she spat, glaring at him. "This is not - this is - "

"Whether it is or it isn't," Draco acknowledged briskly, "I'm simply giving you a choice. Run if you want to. Fight him, fight me, I don't care. It's not my job to determine for you which side is best. But I have warned you what I have planned," he exhaled, "and now, at least, my fucking conscience can no longer beat me senseless for keeping it to myself."

"So you're leaving," she said slowly. "You're leaving, just like that, and I'm simply to decide what to do with this information?"

"Yes. Though if you plan to betray me, I'd prefer you to let me know now," Draco replied drily. "But I recognize I'm not in a position to beg for favors."

She swallowed, contemplating this.

"I don't want to betray you," she said, as much a painful realization as it was an unwelcome confession. "Even though you betrayed me," she registered abruptly, glaring up at him with a sudden wave of fury. "You're the one harboring Harry and Pansy, aren't you?"

 _Your Majesty, please,_  Severus had urged,  _I assure you, I've done all I can -_

 _What is there to discuss?_  Tom snapped.  _You've failed to find them. Everyone in this court - everyone in this_ kingdom _has failed me! Can I even trust you, Severus?_ he demanded, as the other man blinked, stricken.  _Do you keep them from me even now?_

 _I would never_ , Severus had said, aghast, though even Hermione had wondered; had sat on her throne and listened to her husband obsess over his former Queen and  _wondered_  how it was that the two had not been found, and now -

Draco shrugged. "You gave me Grimmauld," he reminded her, and she blinked. "Surely you must have known it was the first place Potter would go, but you defended me to the King, didn't you?"

"I - " she began, and paused, realizing that she had, if only by virtue of exhausting any credible Draco Malfoy opposition. "But Tom killed the Parkinson nobles," she protested. "He killed them, and they were - they were innocent the whole time?" She paused, processing this. "He killed her parents," she realized blankly. "She did nothing to him - nothing, ever, not once, no matter how he treated her, and he - " she broke off. "He killed her parents."

Draco opened his mouth to speak and then hesitated.

"There will be losses," he permitted eventually, with a soldier's even pragmatism. "Even if we do everything right, there will be losses. And I - " he stopped. "I thought I wanted you to lose," he said, quieting slightly.

She nodded, unsure how to address his reference to the past when the unspoken present still hung inescapably in the air between them; unsure, too, how to interpret that his warning indicated a change of mind, if not a change of heart, though neither seemed worth addressing.

Eventually he slid out of the bed beside her, about to rise to his feet until her hand shot out, holding him back.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I don't know what to do. I can't tell him, but I can't fight him, and I - I don't know. I - " she shut her eyes. "I don't know."

He would lose. She knew it. She had already made sure of it, hadn't she?

She'd already saved Tom's reign for him once when she bound Harry to his word, and thus, Draco would lose. Harry would lose. Pansy would lose, and Hermione would persist. Even without giving Tom an heir, she could regain her footing if she could give him Pansy, give him Harry; she would persist, if only she chose him over them one more time.

She would persist, and perhaps there would be feeling again where Tom touched her; maybe he would look at her again instead of through her, skating his gaze along the lines of her face instead of his grievances. Maybe she would forget what she had seen in his head and tasted in his mouth and felt of him swelling in her own lungs, and then maybe the crown on her head would finally feel like it was earned instead of stolen; secure, rather than constantly threatened to be taken away. She could save Tom's reign again, could secure his throne for him, and would not have made the costly mistake of leaving his rivals alive a second time.

This time, she knew, Harry would die. Pansy would die, almost certainly. They would both die - they would  _all_  die - but Hermione would persist.

She would persist, but she had never felt worse for knowing it.

She felt Draco tug her closer, pulling her against him as he bent his head, kissing her again.

It wasn't hatred this time, but it wasn't soft, either. It was a kiss of certainty; an unflinching kiss, a kiss without reservation. A kiss to override the others, filled with an ironclad truth.

Then he pulled away, staring down at her.

"You'll think of something," he said, looking as if he wished that she already had.

* * *

Pansy woke to the sounds of voices outside her window; to the vacancy beside her, sitting upright with a groan and feeling the cool vacancy of where Harry should have been.

 _We'll have to go soon,_  Draco had said when he arrived.  _Fleur says he is most vulnerable now. He is distracted, he has never been less popular with the nobles, and the castle is no better defended than it has ever been. Any longer and he will start to look for you in earnest, Harry, and surely he'll find you this time -_

 _Then we'll have to go,_ Harry had said.  _It's now or never -_

 _No,_  Pansy realized with a cool rush of fury.  _No._

"Harry," she said, her bare feet kissing the ground as once again, she ran blindly through the darkened corridors of a cold, sleeping castle to find him. "Harry!"

"Pansy," Daphne said, appearing from nowhere to take hold of her arm. "Pansy, please, don't do this. He'll be back soon enough, Pansy. I promise you, I promise - "

"Where is he?" Pansy demanded. "Daphne, tell me where he is!"

"You know where he is," Daphne exhaled, looking at once pained and shameful. "But Pansy, please, please just - "

"Let me go!" Pansy shouted, tearing free from her hold and rushing out the castle doors, catching the forms of five men on horseback. "Harry!" she shouted at his back, watching his shoulders go rigid at the sound of her voice as he turned his head to face her. "You promised me," she flung accusatorily at his back. "You promised me, Harry!"

"Pansy," he exhaled, dropping down from his horse and rushing forward to take her in his arms. "Pansy, please, go back to bed - you'll be safe here with Daphne, I promise. Just stay here, Pansy, please - "

"You promised me," she raged in his ear, refusing to wrap her arms around him as he clutched her tightly, more restraint than comfort. "I told you I wanted to be with you when you killed him. I told you I wanted to see his face, Harry - I told you what I owed him!"

"I know what I promised, but things are different now," he said to her, his voice low in her ear as the other men - Ron, Draco, Theo, and one of the other Weasley brothers - watched from afar, clearly apprehensive. "Things are very different now, Pansy. You're carrying our child, you're carrying our son. I'm not risking you, I'm not risking  _both_  of you - "

"You don't get to decide for me what I would risk!" she said furiously. "You would have left me behind, Harry? You would have said nothing? What if you were riding to your death, you stupid, reckless, terrible - "

"I kissed you goodbye when I kissed you goodnight," he told her, dropping his voice. "I kissed you, I made love to you, I told you in every way I know how that I love you. If I had died, then you would have remembered my love for you, I made sure of it - "

"I would have remembered you as the man who abandoned me!" she snarled, holding her fists to his chest. "I would have remembered you as the rogue who slipped out in the night and didn't return - "

"So be it, then," Harry exhaled, his jaw clenched. "So be it. It's not up to me how you think of me, Pansy, but you made me a promise, too. You promised me you would raise our son," he reminded her, pulling away to glance down at her, "and I can't put you in danger. I can't, I  _won't_ , I am keeping you  _safe_ , Pansy - "

"Harry," Ron said uneasily, glancing over his shoulder at shadowy specters; the invisible threats in the night. "Harry, we have to go, now."

"I KNOW," Harry shouted angrily at him. "Give me a fucking  _minute_ , Ron - "

"You can't leave me," Pansy blurted helplessly, abruptly switching tactics and clinging to him now. "Take me with you, Harry, please. I want to be at your side, Harry - I'm as loyal to you as these men," she added over his shoulder, wishing to bury them beneath the truth of it. "More so, even! Why should they stand beside you and not me?"

"Because you have our son," Harry reminded her evenly. "And please, Pansy, tell him that I loved him, and I loved his mother, more than my own self - that I fought for him until the end, whatever it cost me - I need you to tell him, Pansy - "

"Harry," one of the men called, "we can't waste a moment -"

"Potter, Weasley's right - "

"Don't go," Pansy begged, crying steadily now, much to her dismay. "Please, please Harry, just let me come with you, just let me - "

Harry glanced over her shoulder, almost certainly locking eyes with Daphne, and turned back to Pansy, letting out an unsteady sigh.

"For a moment," he said painfully, "you will hate me. Try not to let it last." He bent his head, pulling his face to hers, and kissed her brutally, unbending and unyielding and unrelenting, as only he had ever kissed her; as if his kiss could live eternally on her lips as a scar. "I love you, Pansy," he said, and ripped himself from her arms, taking a step back as Pansy felt Daphne's arms wrap around her waist, holding her back. "I love you, Pansy. I love you. I love you, I - "

He tore himself away, as if one more look at her would cost him everything.

"Harry!" Pansy screamed, his name tearing painfully, achingly from her lungs as Daphne held her still, not letting her collapse to her knees. "HARRY!"

But he didn't turn back, and she watched him go, the shape of him gradually swallowed up by the night.


	21. Watch It Burn Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter contains a moment of dubious consent.

**Chapter 21: Watch It Burn Down**

Every time Pansy closed her eyes, she saw the shape of Harry's back as it dissolved into darkness. She heard not his voice in her ears, but the sound of the hooves that fell heavily on the ground for miles, carrying him away from her. She felt not his touch, but the sensation of him being ripped away; the tactility of the distance between them as he went. It seemed that every time she tried to think of something else - of  _anything_  else - the moment only haunted her more. The tighter Daphne held her, too, the worse it seemed to feel; the more pronounced Harry's absence became.

"You know it was for the best," Daphne told her, with a gentleness that felt vaguely like apprehension. "I know it hurts to see him go, Pansy, but he's right, you would only be in danger if you went with him - "

"Everyone is in danger," Pansy returned bluntly. "Do you really believe that if he fails, we'll be safe here? Once he sees Theo and Draco beside Harry, Tom will come for us. He'll kill us both." She grimaced. "We're not safe here."

"Harry won't fail," Daphne said tentatively. "You can't know that."

"No, I can't, but aren't we the ones who have to think of this?" Pansy insisted, rising to her feet and pacing the floor of Daphne's chambers. "When have men gone to fight a war where everyone's come back alive? They're not prepared for  _failure_ , Daphne," Pansy pronounced abruptly, turning to face her. "They have not prepared for what could happen if they lose, and Tom won't take prisoners this time; he won't allow survivors. Can you live with knowing that your son is here, your daughter, and you are all vulnerable? Tom will kill them too, Daphne," she said through gritted teeth. "You know he will."

"Stop," Daphne said, shuddering. "Stop, Pansy, please - "

"We can't stay here," Pansy said again, growing more and more certain of at least that much. "And this is not just about Harry. I want him to succeed, Daphne, you know I do, but we can't be the fools who sit as targets for a mad King's rage."

"We can find sanctuary, then," Daphne suggested, fidgeting. "A church. An abbey."

"And sit cloistered there, where Tom can surround us? Starve us, keep us isolated, and wait to drive us out? No," Pansy snapped. " _No_. And that's assuming he would even keep to the principles of sanctuary, which you and I both know he may not." She paused, shaking her head. "No. We can't hide. It won't work, and I'm tired of doing it. We have to do something else."

"Like what?" Daphne pressed, joining Pansy where she stood. "Where else could we go, Pansy? And be reasonable," she urged warningly. "We cannot suddenly aim to fight our husbands' battles for them. We're hardly soldiers ourselves."

At that, Pansy frowned, staring out into nothing.

"You're right," she permitted. "We can't fight this for them."

"Well, I'm glad you see th-"

"We can't fight it," Pansy continued, "but perhaps we don't need to."

Daphne blinked, startled. "What?"

"This isn't a war," Pansy said again, turning to face her. "Well, it is, but not for us. Daphne, this is not a battle, it's not a game; it's a  _dance_ ," she determined. "And who has ever been able to do that better than us?"

"Pansy, I don't - "

"These men," Pansy said, her mouth tightening. "They'll kill each other. They only know how to break things; how to destroy things in their wake. If Harry takes on Tom at Hogwarts, he will be seen as the aggressor; the traitor," she said bitterly, thinking again of what Ron had said about the nobles rallying around Harry while he remained the personification of honor. "If Harry kills Tom, the older Loyalists will challenge him, and war will drag on. And if Tom - " she paused, clearing her throat. "If Tom wins," she postured slowly, aching even to think of it, "then more of the same. And Draco and Theo will suffer, too. Better to think of it as a dance, then," she urged, "and find a way to win the audience, too. The nobles. To be the better performer."

"Fine, so what if it's a dance, then," Daphne said, bemused. "What difference does it make?"

"All the difference in the world!" Pansy protested. "There must be a way to make this seem palatable to the nobles who will have to accept the rule of one man or the other. There must be a way to swing their favor to Harry's side before he comes crashing in after months of bitter slander, and  _countless_  lies -"

"The nobles are a lost cause," Daphne said slowly, shaking her head. "Those who side with either the Peverells or Gaunts have been born and bred to hate one another for centuries."

"The noble _men_ , yes," Pansy agreed. "But again, it is a war for them. For us, it has always been a dance."

"The women?" Daphne asked, and Pansy nodded.

"Think of the others involved, Daphne, whom you know have not crossed Harry's mind, or Draco's, or even Tom's. How will Fleur Delacour fare after this? Or Hannah and Lavender, who are daughters of Loyalists and will be cast aside by one side or the other, or possibly even both?"

"The lucky ones will be redistributed to the winning side," Daphne remarked darkly. "The unlucky ones will die for their husbands' allegiances, or for the ambition of their fathers -"

"Yes," Pansy agreed. "Which is why we have always stepped so lightly; because we know better than anyone that our fate is not ours to decide. We have to follow the tides, follow the men, as they make war between each other."

"But what can we do?" Daphne pressed. "We are hardly armed for combat, Pansy. Even with the best of intentions - even with a plan," she clarified, "what can we really do?"

 _Some_ , Pansy heard Harry say in the back of her mind,  _require a more visibly impressive weapon in order to create the illusion of danger -_

"Perhaps we do have a weapon," Pansy murmured, frowning in thought.

_\- but I say you can cause more damage with the element of surprise._

"What do you m-"

"Hermione," Pansy said abruptly, pressing her lips together at the once-oppressive name. "I promised her when I left that she would not be happy with Tom, and if Draco is to be believed, then surely she's come to know what I meant. I told you I couldn't hate her, Daphne, and it's not because I'm any admirable saint; it's because I knew what she brought upon herself. Because I knew one day she would sit on my throne and wear my crown," Pansy confessed bitterly, "and thus, she would inevitably be subjected to my pain. Because no woman has ever been fulfilled by being the wife of an arrogant, ambitious King - and whatever else Hermione is, she is a woman first. She is still a woman, and she is learning a woman's lesson: that whatever power she thinks she gains in this life," Pansy exhaled, "her survival still depends on a man who may put her aside."

"Perhaps, but do you really think she would help you?" Daphne asked dubiously. "She may have learned her lesson about the King, but still, she's not without her own ambition. She wears that crown with as much pride as you did, and it will not be easily taken from her."

"She is not the weapon. Her  _misery_  is the weapon," Pansy corrected. "Her unhappiness is what we can use to bring her to our side, and her cunning is what can help us keep our husbands out of trouble, out of the dungeons, out of the stocks. I am positive that by now Tom has disappointed her," she added, shuddering slightly at her own memories of being put aside. "And Hermione is too smart not to see, as I have, that Harry's attack on Hogwarts will have repercussions; that she stands to lose as much as we do, especially if Harry wins."

"But how would we reach her?" Daphne asked, and then, seeing the way Pansy turned slowly towards her, she took a few steps back. "Oh, no. No, Pansy,  _no_  - "

"Draco and Harry agreed they would need at least a day to muster their armies," Pansy reminded her. "Whereas if we rode straight to Hogwarts, we would easily beat them there."

"Pansy, you're with child!" Daphne protested. "You can't - that ride would take - "

"All night, at least," Pansy agreed, nodding. "But if I can keep my husband alive, then so be it. If I can make an alliance that saves his life," she determined fiercely, "then I will."

"But what about me?" Daphne insisted. "What about my children?"

"You have servants you trust?" Pansy asked, and Daphne nodded slowly. "Then hide them. It's better that way, anyway. Leaving them here in this house is dangerous. Even having them with you means they are at risk."

"But - "

"You don't have to come with me," Pansy assured her, stepping forward to brush her thumb against Daphne's cheek. "You've stood by me long enough, Daphne, and I will not ask you for anything more. But still, you should hide yourself, and your children, if you're going to stay behind. We cannot wait for the men to make our fates for us," she added firmly, swallowing hard. "We must make them for ourselves."

Daphne paused, looking conflicted.

"You are not afraid anymore," she noted, and Pansy shook her head.

"No," Pansy agreed. "Because this is what I was born for. I made a promise to my husband that I would protect his legacy, and I will. But he made a promise to me that I would see my enemy fall, and I will see to that promise, too. In fact, I will make it happen. Because I am strong and brave," she thought, hearing Harry's voice in her head, "and I am cunning and careful, and I am quick and clever. And if some men are born to make war, then I am born to end them, because I have a tactician's brain, an executioner's will, and a demon's speed, and I have a woman's intuition on top of that. And I will end this," she said firmly. "I will end this before it costs me any further damage, and I will do it in spite of those who believed I could only be bought and sold. I am a woman born of a noble and loved by a prince, and the heart in my chest beats truer than that of any Gaunt tyrant, or any false Queen. I will end this," she said again, certain of it this time. "I will not wait. I cannot wait."

Another breath, and then - "I will end it," Pansy promised, reaching out to rest her hands on Daphne's shoulders. "And if I stand alone," she exhaled slowly, "then I will fail alone, but at least I will have finally stood for something."

Daphne faltered for a moment, her breath suspended; and then, before Pansy knew what was happening, Daphne had dropped to one knee, her head bent low.

"Your Majesty," Daphne said, and Pansy blinked, surprised. "My Queen," Daphne declared firmly, and Pansy stared down at her, uncertain, before recognizing the offering; before accepting the fealty that had been sworn.

When Pansy raised Daphne to her feet, it was without tears or hesitation; without fear or grief.

It was only a dance, as it had always been.

Drawing forth, rising up;  _relevé._

* * *

Hermione looked up from her reflection to watch Fleur diligently taming her curls, pinning them in place with the unerring touch of a craftsman, or an artist.

For a moment, Hermione wanted to take one of the pins and stab her.

But she found she was without the energy for revenge.

"You should be careful," Hermione said quietly, and Fleur looked up.

"Majesty?" she asked, frowning slightly, and Hermione cleared her throat, raising her voice just slightly.

"You should be careful," Hermione said again. "With the King, I mean. There's no use in us pretending he doesn't pursue you, but it is a dangerous thing to give in to his advances. I would not advise it."

"Majesty," Fleur began tentatively, and Hermione shook her head.

"I realize I may sound like I'm - " she paused. "I realize I have an agenda of my own in advising you away from him, but I hope you will listen to me. He is powerful, he is handsome. He is difficult to resist. But the only thing more damaging than refusing the King, Lady Delacour," Hermione said solemnly, "is giving him what he wants."

She felt a little hitch from Fleur, as if the woman had flinched.

"I know a little bit about requiring a man's attention for my survival," Fleur said eventually. "This, what you say about the King, is true for most men that I have known, and I wish it were not the case. But this is not the first time I have been used, and I know it will not be the last."

"You don't trust me," Hermione noted, and Fleur looked up, meeting her eye's reflection.

"I wish you no harm," Fleur said carefully. "But between my life and yours, I choose my own."

"I know the feeling," Hermione said, and then paused. "Were you warned against me? To see me as an enemy, I mean," she clarified.

"Yes," Fleur said, without hesitation. "They call you a witch. At Beauxbatons, they say there has never been a sharper-eyed woman than you. They speak of you as if you are a monster."

"And do you think I am?" Hermione asked. "Either a witch or a monster."

"No," Fleur replied bluntly. "I think you are a clever woman. But every clever woman is a monster of some kind," she added, her lips pursing slightly. "To every man, such a thing is highly unnatural."

"True," Hermione said, and paused. "Lady Delacour," she began, and stopped again, catching something in the reflection and turning sharply. "Lady Nott?" she asked, disbelieving, as Daphne stepped into the room. "And - "

She paused, feeling the blood drain from her face as Pansy stepped in through the frame. Beside her, Fleur dropped into a curtsy, but Hermione froze, halfway to defensively rising to her feet when Pansy held up a hand, shaking her head slightly.

"How about this," Pansy suggested drily. "I won't make you pretend I am a Queen if you don't make me pretend you are one."

Hermione swallowed, nodding once.

"Agreed," she said; and then, "Hello, Pansy."

The other woman's mouth twitched slightly. It was obvious that she had ridden all night, but even with her hair askew and layers of exhaustion evident in the pallor of her skin, her dark gaze was as sharp as ever.

"Hello, Hermione," Pansy replied.

* * *

"Leave us," Pansy said, and Daphne and Fleur nodded, slipping quietly from her former chambers as she faced Hermione, neither of them moving.

"So," Hermione began.

"So," Pansy agreed.

"I told you I would kill Harry if you ever came back," Hermione said, though it felt like less a threat than a reminder. "You must have a very good reason for being here."

"I do," Pansy agreed, taking a few steps to close some of the distance between them. "I have to tell you, Hermione, you do not look well."

Hermione glanced up, setting her jaw. "Helpful," she muttered under her breath.

"I hear it told you have a new rival," Pansy added, and permitted a wry smirk. "And here I thought I was special."

"Well, there is no rivalry like ours," Hermione agreed drily, taking a step to bring them face to face. "I take it you are the one who got to Lady Delacour first, then?"

"No point denying it now," Pansy said, shrugging. "I thought her a valuable asset."

"You were right," Hermione permitted. "Tom cannot look away from her."

She looked down as she said it, and Pansy stepped forward unwillingly.

"I didn't mean for it to be like that," she said quickly, knowing it was a sparse offering at best, and Hermione made a face.

"You knew it would be."

"Well, it was a risk I deemed worthy of taking."

"On whose behalf? Yours?"

"My husband's," Pansy said. "Harry's."

Hermione blinked.

"So it's true, then," she said. "You've married the runaway Peverell." She paused. "You have his child too, don't you?"

Pansy blinked. "How did you - "

"Doesn't matter," Hermione said dully. "You are all of Tom's worst fears realized, and all because I didn't kill you when I could have." Another pause. "When I  _should_  have," she amended.

"I realize I never thanked you for that," Pansy commented, and Hermione wearily met her eye.

"You should have shown your gratitude by staying gone."

"I had to warn you," Pansy said. "Harry is coming for his throne."

"I know," Hermione said listlessly, and Pansy faltered.

"What do you mean you kn-"

"Draco told me," Hermione supplied without comment, and though Pansy didn't know quite what to make of that remark, she said nothing. "I haven't told Tom," Hermione admitted eventually, as Pansy might have guessed.

Pansy let a few moments pass in uncertainty as neither of them moved.

"Why didn't y-"

"I don't know," Hermione said bluntly. "I don't know. For once, I don't know what to do. I have no idea what steps to take, or even which would be more dangerous. It always seemed so clear before; it was always so stark, right and wrong. You were my enemy," she added, looking up at Pansy. "You  _are_  my enemy, and yet - "

"I could protect you," Pansy offered quickly. "I  _would_  protect you," she amended. "Harry is coming with a lot of men, Hermione. With nobles from both sides. I could make sure you get out of this safe; that you are not lost for Tom's mistakes."

"Why?" Hermione scoffed.

"For the same reason you didn't kill me when you should have," Pansy reminded her. "Because I don't wish you dead."

Hermione paused, letting the implications of that remark settle between them.

"Still. It seems inevitable that you'll be the death of me," Hermione noted darkly.

Pansy nodded. "Yes. As you will almost certainly be the death of me."

"Then we are not so different from these Gaunts and Peverells, are we?" Hermione asked, looking irritated. "Hardly different at all."

"We are different so long as we make different choices," Pansy reminded her. "You didn't kill me, and I wish to return the favor. However dangerous you are to me, I will help you escape with your life."

"And if I don't want your help?" Hermione prompted.

"I still want yours," Pansy replied. "I want this castle emptied. I want innocent lives spared. I want Tom to have Harry and Harry to have Tom if that's what they want, but I want the rest of you - Fleur and Daphne and Hannah and Lavender and whoever else does not wish to crumble between generations of bloodshed - to be gone from here." She paused. "And," she exhaled, wondering if the other woman would agree, "I want your help to do it."

"A lofty goal," Hermione permitted, and paused. "It will be Harry who dies," she remarked, and Pansy tried not to flinch.

"Even if you're right, the nobles will come for Tom again," Pansy reminded her -  _don't bend_ , she thought,  _don't break_. "And they will be more persuasive than ever with a dead Peverell heir to rally behind. A living man is a traitor, but a dead one is a martyr," she challenged. "Can Tom withstand the attacks from inside if they keep coming?"

"No," Hermione replied honestly, to Pansy's immense surprise. "Diagon is nearly bankrupt. He cannot afford an attack on Hogwarts, much less the fallout that would occur." She paused, thinking. "And I suspect you are right," she added slowly, bringing her fingers to her mouth in muted calculation. "We must minimize the damage of a civil war, or else Diagon will be ripe for the taking. Even by a weakened Durmstrang, or by the nobles of Beauxbatons -"

"I was thinking more about keeping my husband alive," Pansy commented, "but yes, Diagon too."

Hermione looked up, moderately annoyed at the reminder of Harry.

"He was stupid to come back," she remarked flippantly. "He's a reckless, careless man."

"He's a reckless, careless  _rogue_ , actually," Pansy countered. "And he fights honorably for the throne that should have belonged to his father."

"Honorably, by gathering nobles in secret?"

"Fine," Pansy muttered, shrugging. "So it's not the most honorable thing. But who has Harry killed in cold blood, and what does Tom have on his hands? Whatever you have against Harry," she said firmly, "surely you know he is the better man."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak - to argue, Pansy guessed - but Pansy cut her off.

"Has he started it yet?" she asked Hermione, dropping her voice. "Tom. Has he?"

"Started what?"

"Taking without asking," Pansy supplied, still moderately surprised that after all this time, it still ached to recall. "Thinking of you as a possession. Speaking of you as a belonging. Threatening to take back the crown he so generously  _gave_  you," she added bitterly, "because you started to demand things of your own?"

Hermione blinked.

Blinked again.

"You and I are different," Hermione said -  _conspicuously not an answer_ , Pansy thought, though she could see the point had registered clearly enough.

"Oh, I know," Pansy permitted with a nod. "Tom never loved me, never valued me; not like you. But isn't it so much worse, then," she prompted, stepping closer, "that for the way he looks at you, and the way he claims to revere you, he still treats us both the same?"

Hermione blinked again.

"I - "

"Pansy," Daphne interrupted, her face appearing in the frame. "Hermione, we're running out of time. What do you want to do?"

Pansy turned to Hermione, arching a brow.

"Well?"

* * *

It was not like Hermione to be without a plan, and she didn't care for the feeling.

"Have Hannah or Lavender get Severus," she said, glancing at Daphne. "Immediately. And covertly," she added, and Daphne nodded, sparing Pansy a questioning glance and then turning quickly at Pansy's subsequent nod.

"Why Severus?" Pansy asked coolly, but Hermione only stood in silence, trying to force her mind to halt its incessant buzzing.

"An attack on Hogwarts will be expensive.  _Too_  expensive." She paced the floor. "Tom or Harry must die this time. Each are the last of their line."

Pansy frowned, one hand floating to her stomach. "But - "

"He doesn't know that," Hermione snapped, glaring at her. "He doesn't know, and you must do everything possible to keep that to yourself."

Pansy scoffed. "Your sage advice is much appreciated, Hermione, but I'm hardly going to announce my pregnancy to the man who wishes me dead - "

"What do you wish for him, then?" Hermione interrupted brusquely. "He will kill you if he finds you. What will you do if you find him first?"

Pansy opened her mouth, pausing, and hesitated.

"What would you do if you were me?" Pansy asked eventually.

"Kill him," Hermione said without hesitation.

Pansy blinked.

"Well, right on the first guess," she admitted, just as Severus appeared in the frame.

"Your Majest-" he broke off, glancing at Pansy. "What is this?" he demanded, taking a few gruff steps forward. "Does His Majesty know  _she_  is - "

"I need you to get out, Severus," Hermione said flatly. "I need you to round up the nobles and leave. Say whatever you need to say to them to make it happen, but do it. Get the servants out, the staff - "

"On whose orders?" Severus asked, his dark brow furrowing.

"Mine," Hermione snapped. "And I need you to act without delay."

Severus stared at her. "But - Your Majesty, I cannot - "

"Severus, I'm quite pressed for time," Hermione informed him irritably. "If you wish to oppose me, then oppose me, but I do not have time for dumb-stricken silence. Do you wish to stay here and die for this King, or do you wish to follow my instructions and leave?"

Severus took the question like a blow, reeling slightly.

"And the King?" he asked her, and beside her, Hermione could feel Pansy stiffen in disbelief.

"These are my orders," Hermione reminded him. "If the King accuses you of wrongdoing, remind him that he was the one who gave me sovereignty to make demands."

Severus hesitated. "And will he?" he asked. "Accuse me," he clarified, and Hermione shook her head.

"Not when I'm done with him," she said, and Severus nodded slowly.

"Best of luck, Your Majesty," he said, sparing Pansy a brief, furtive nod of his head, and then he pivoted over his shoulder, disappearing into the corridor.

At once, Pansy rounded on Hermione. "How did you know he would do that?"

Hermione shrugged. "All men have egos; even the ones who have been stomped down over time. Tom crossed him," she pointed out, recalling each time that Tom had pushed Severus away or berated him for his failure to produce Harry. "He's been ignoring Severus for months, and now there are cracks in his loyalty. All it takes is one rupture for the entire foundation to fall."

Pansy looked impressed in spite of herself.

"Pansy," Daphne said, reappearing. "What do you want us to do now?"

Pansy glanced at Hermione, who shrugged, gesturing for her to decide.

"Where are Hannah and Lavender? And Fleur," Pansy amended, and the other women appeared beside Daphne. "Help get everyone out," Pansy suggested, and Hermione nodded her agreement. "Empty this castle as discreetly as possible. Tom will notice, surely," she added, glancing back at Hermione, "but get as many people out as you can before he does."

"How?" Lavender asked, and to Hermione's surprise, it was Fleur who scoffed.

"Let me teach you something," Fleur said in her airy French accent, "about getting a man to follow your every move without question."

"Oh," Lavender said, looking stunned. "Okay, well - "

"Now what?" Pansy asked as Daphne came into the room, letting the others process out behind her.

Hermione shrugged. "Now we get to work."

* * *

They agreed that Harry should face Tom alone.

"Once Severus has the castle emptied," Hermione posed aloud, feverishly pacing back and forth, "you can let Harry in. Let it be the two of them, as it should have been, rather than a revolt by the nobles; such a thing cannot be unseen." She glanced up, pursing her lips. "Better they not get ideas about rebelling against their next King. Better, too, that we not look weak to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, or they'll be next at our doors."

"Their next King," Pansy echoed. "Does that mean you support Harry's cause?"

Hermione's gaze cut coldly to hers.

"It means the King presently on this throne is not in his right mind," she said flatly. "Whoever's blood claim is stronger makes no difference to me. The man who has wronged me will pay for his wrongs, but however this turns out, I must survive." She stared fiercely at Pansy. "Do you understand? I must survive. I've had my sins, but at the very least I've earned my right to survival, and between your life and mine, I choose mine."

"I wouldn't ask you for anything more," Pansy agreed, and Hermione nodded, holding her hand to her mouth in thought and beginning to pace the floor once again.

"Be careful," Daphne whispered to Pansy, reaching out for her hand as they came closer to parting. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? Or that this will work?"

"No," Pansy admitted, glancing over her shoulder at Hermione. "But whatever this will be, I need you to get to Theo first. Make sure that whatever he and Harry have planned, it stops before it starts. Let this be between the Gaunt heir and the Peverell heir."

Daphne blinked. "But - "

Pansy drew her into a close embrace, turning to whisper in her ear. "Get Draco," she whispered, breathing it into Daphne's ear. "Be certain that Harry only  _looks_  like he's alone. I put my faith in your hands."

Daphne turned to brush her lips against Pansy's cheek. "You don't trust her?" she breathed against Pansy's skin.

"Just do it," Pansy exhaled firmly, giving her one final squeeze before nudging her out the door. "Go, and best of luck to you, Daphne," she said, taking a long look at her. "Be safe, Lady Nott, and be careful."

Daphne turned briefly to Hermione, who stared at her.

"Thank you," Hermione said, looking conflicted. "You have been more a friend to me than I deserved."

Daphne nodded, a tinge of regret in her softened gaze. "I wish you well, Hermione," Daphne told her honestly, looking between her and Pansy. "I wish to god we are all three standing here again by the end of this day, but if we are not - "

She hesitated, and Hermione stepped forward.

"Then it has been both a great pleasure to be your friend," Hermione assured her, "and a true privilege to have been your enemy."

Daphne nodded, fighting a hesitant smile.

And then, with a last look, she was gone.

* * *

"How will we keep Tom occupied?" Pansy had asked her. "Harry is at least a half hour's ride away - won't Tom notice that the castle is empty?"

But Hermione had known precisely where he would be, and had known that it wouldn't be a problem.

"Tom," she said as she entered his workspace, pulling open the familiar dungeon door. "I need something from you."

She watched the back of his neck as he tilted his head at her entry, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

"I told Severus I wasn't to be interrupted," Tom said impatiently. "Though - " he frowned, turning to face her. "Where is he? He should have been here by now with the things I requested."

"He'll be here soon, I'm sure," Hermione said, coming to stand beside him. "In the meantime I thought perhaps I could be with you." She waited, clearing her throat. "Alone with you," she clarified, and he turned, considering her with curiosity for what felt like several silent minutes, the both of them paused by months of suspicion.

The next few seconds, though, all happened in a rush.

It was easy enough to fall back into habit; to let his mouth fall on hers with his usual possessive direction, and to let him lay her back against the table where he'd first taught her about power; about passion, pain, and control.

As Tom's lips burned down her neck, Hermione closed her eyes.

_I want a love that feels like rage._

"Have you missed this, Hermione?" Tom said gruffly in her ear, his hands burning along the cut of her dress, scathing marks into the boning that tore into her ribs. "Have you missed me? I knew that you would return," he said to her, his voice low. "I knew that you would change your mind. Because what are you without me?" His tongue slid against her neck, his teeth bearing down against her. "What are we when we're apart?"

_I want a love without softness, with fury; a love that lashes out._

"I never left you," she said, swallowing. "I have only ever wanted you, Tom. You know this. You know this."

_I want a love that I build from nothing, that I cobble together with my bare hands, that rips me apart while I bleed for it -_

"I know this," he echoed, his nails digging into her thigh.

_\- while I tear the world apart for it -_

"Has it been worth it?" he asked gruffly.

_\- while I claw towards it on my knees._

"Have you been satisfied without me?" he laughed, the sound of it burning at her throat. "I doubt it."

_I want a love that feels like rage._

"I know more than you think, Hermione. I know what you have kept from me," Tom whispered in her ear, and she went rigid. "I know the secrets you think have been safe. I know that you've betrayed me, and look how forgiving I am," he growled, gracelessly tearing at her gown. "Look how merciful your King can be."

_I want a love that has consequences._

"How," she began, and cleared her throat. "How have I betrayed you, Tom?"

_I want a love that lives on its own -_

"You think I don't know?" he asked, and then his hand was on the base of her stomach, singeing through the silk. "You really think I don't know?"

_\- that breathes and unfurls in your absence -_

She held her breath.

_\- that breaks the bones and hearts and wills of everyone on earth -_

"I asked you for an heir and you denied me one," he snarled, and his touch that had never been soft had no longer even the pretense of passion; he sank into her, forcefully, and she let out a cry of pain.

_\- before it is ever diminished._

"I didn't," she forced out, flinching. "I didn't, Tom, I would never - "

_I want a love that festers like a sickness; like a curse._

"Don't lie to me, Hermione," he said, his hand bruising around her arms. "Do not lie to me; not when I have lies enough with these snakes at court. I have seen the most intimate parts of you, haven't I? I've seen the depths of you; the darkness in you, the fury, and it made me loyal to you. It made me put aside my better judgment for you. It made me sacrifice everything, put my own crown at risk,  _for you_  - and what have you done in return?"

_I want a love that is bigger than me -_

"You saw the depths of me," he raged quietly in her ear, "and turned away."

_\- and meaner, too._

"You betrayed me," he said, teeth gritted, "and look how I still come to you. Look how much I give you, how richly I reward you, while you have been falser to me than any of my nobles, than any man who sits unworthily at my court. Is that not love, Hermione?" he asked with a wretched laugh. "Is that not what it is to love someone, to take them in your arms when you would rather diminish them to nothing for what they've done?"

_I want a love that looks like you._

"Tom," Hermione said, but she heard in her voice that she was pleading. "Tom, please - "

_Tom, please -_

_What have I done?_

"This is what you made me, Hermione," Tom ranted down at her. "This is what you made me, didn't you? This is what you've done. You wanted a King you could not refuse," he snarled, "and now I am that."

_This is what you made me, Hermione -_

"I am a King," he hissed in her ear, "that  _no one_  can refuse."

-  _this is what you've done!_

For a moment - in a chilling breath - Hermione glimpsed something in his eyes; a flash of futures and pasts, a blinding glimmer of chaos, of intertwining strands of light.  _A snake_ , she thought,  _and a lioness_ ; passion and blood and bone. A brash darkness, a bright paleness, a flash of raven hair -  _a touch in the darkness, the sputtering of a candle flame, the hollow glow of a raised crown, a strike of steel against gold_  -

The air in her lungs wrenched to a muted gasp as he collapsed against her, finally falling still, but the flickers on the horizon, the fire that raged out of sight - the crimson sky, the scarlet shadow, the world engulfed in flames - failed to fade from the backs of her eyelids, searing against the channels of her mind.

Tom pulled out of her with a groan, shifting to fall onto his back beside her as he caught his breath, one hand falling to his forehead.

Hermione swallowed, trying to steady the racing of her heart and finding she could not, she  _couldn't_ , as the rest of her fought furiously to take control, to shut it  _out_ , to shut out everything she had seen and heard and  _would_  see, and  _would_  hear, and everything, everything,  _everything_  that was yet to come -

"I should kill Karkaroff," Tom remarked absently, staring up at the ceiling. "Just in case. There's certainly no love lost between us for what he's cost me, and you said yourself he was conniving, didn't you? You called him a bully, and he is. And not even a useful bully, which is the worst sin of all." He turned his head, looking at her. "Yes, I think I should be rid of him," he said, and Hermione shuddered at the way the words seemed to burn a hole through her, as if he were no different from the fiery visions in her head.

"I'm pleased you haven't been too childish about my attention to Fleur," Tom added, turning his musings back towards the ceiling as Hermione closed her eyes. "You've learned your lesson since your obsession with Draco. I should thank you for it."

"Do you love her?" Hermione asked, drawing moisture to her mouth, and Tom laughed.

"She is certainly beautiful," he permitted. "Valuable. Desirable. Were I free to, I'd marry her. Get some lands and some heirs off her. But I don't forget that you made me what I am," he said, turning his head to face her. "Nor do I forget that I can have her without the laborious task of putting a crown on her head."

"She - " Hermione began, and swallowed again. "She is not for your amusement, Tom."

"Isn't she?" he countered, and laughed, rising to his feet. "In any case, now that you've come to your senses, I don't see that I would need to. It's all so very simple, isn't it, Hermione?" he pressed, brushing his lips coolly against her cheek. "That you have always understood power, yours and mine, and you know there is no man on earth who will equal you but me. There is no higher aspiration you can have than to share mine."

_Me and my power, you and your throne, we are not ourselves without them -_

"Tom," she said, and numbly forced herself to sit up. "What will you do," she asked quietly, "when you have taken what you want from me?"

He turned over his shoulder, staring at her, and failed to soften.

"That's the beauty of us, Hermione," he told her, his gaze never falling from hers. "The beauty, and the truth, and the blessing and the curse of what we are. That we will never stop taking what is ours," he murmured. "Because we will never have enough."

 _You will never be happy with him,_  she heard Pansy say.

Hermione closed her eyes.

"We will never have enough," she agreed, turning to leave the room, and she felt him stare at her; felt him watch her go.

"Hermione," he said, growling it out as she went. "Hermione, where are you going?"

She let the door fall shut behind her.

She heard his footsteps, the shout of her name.

"HERMIONE!"

But she kept walking, even as his footfall landed heavily behind her, and she didn't stop.

* * *

"Pansy," Harry exhaled, shaking his head with bewilderment as he ran into the courtyard to meet her. "What's going on? Where's Tom's guard? Daphne said the nobles - what is -" He looked at her, blinking. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"Daphne and I borrowed her servants' clothes to get in the castle undetected," Pansy explained, resting her hands on his shoulders to steady him, to focus him, before glancing behind him. "Where is Draco?"

"Here," Draco announced, walking in behind Harry and frowning at the eerie silence of the castle courtyard. "And more men not far behind, if we need them - "

"It won't come to that," Pansy warned, shaking her head. "It can't come to that. It will be you and Tom alone, Harry."

Harry frowned. "Then why is Malfoy here?"

"Because I don't trust Hermione," Pansy said in a low voice. "Nor should she know you're here, either," she added to Draco. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Why me?" Draco insisted. "Why not Weasley, or one of the older Weasleys, or - "

Pansy glared at him. "You know why."

Draco scoffed in disbelief. "If you think I have any influence over Granger, you're wrong," he assured her, though Pansy noted he looked down at his feet, as if he'd already lent the matter some thought. "She's given me no indication that she sides with me," he said gruffly, "or even against Tom, for that matter."

"Yes, and Pansy, if  _you_  don't trust her," Harry began, but Pansy cut him off.

"I trust her so far as our interests our mutual. I believe she knows what's best for this castle, for this kingdom, and I believe she's right to keep you both from war. But do I believe she can be relied upon to side with you? With us?" Pansy shook her head vigorously. "No, Harry, I don't - "

"Well then we should ride on the castle now," Harry protested, glancing at Draco. "It's emptied, we have the advantage, and - "

"SHH," Pansy hissed, shoving Draco out of sight as she heard footsteps behind her, Harry's hand falling instantly around the hilt of his sword. "Hermione - "

"Don't draw that," Hermione said firmly, and thrust a hand out.

Pansy froze as the sword that had been in Harry's now-vacant hands buried itself in the courtyard ground, leaving him to stare down at his empty scabbard.

"How did you do that?" Pansy gasped, helplessly reaching out for where the sword had been, but Hermione didn't answer.

"We made a deal, didn't we?" Hermione demanded, storming up to Harry and challenging him with a look. "I told you it would cost you your life if you challenged him - your  _life_ ," she repeated, looking furious. "Did you somehow not think me worth listening to? Or did you perhaps mistake a death threat for some sort of idle game?"

"I thought some things were worth dying for," Harry countered, setting his jaw. "And if you really think I need a sword to do this, then - "

"HERMIONE!" Pansy heard Tom bellow, and Pansy turned, gaping at him.

"Harry," she said firmly, "Harry, you need to - "

But when she turned back over her shoulder, both Harry and Draco were blocked, somehow; Pansy pressed her hand out, speechless, but it was as if a cage of ice had grown up from the ground, settling in crackled frost beneath her feet as Harry pounded firmly against the glass-like wall, the sound of his voice muted behind it.

"Hermione," Pansy gasped, catching the white glow of the other woman's palms and realizing where the barricade had come from. "Hermione, what are you -  _how_  are you - "

"Ah, Pansy," she heard Tom remark coldly behind her, and she turned, staring at him with a heavy, uncomfortable swallow before he glanced over her shoulder, nodding to Hermione. "Now this is a very interesting thing you've done, my Queen," he said to Hermione in a low voice, eyeing her. "Did you empty the castle so that I would have them at my mercy?"

"Yes," Hermione said, her voice toneless.

Pansy stepped backwards, licking her dry lips and hoping it was a lie, a trap; that somehow, the other woman had not betrayed her quite so flagrantly as it appeared.

"Is that Draco?" Tom asked, glancing through the impenetrable glass that Hermione had somehow created. "Well. Perhaps you were right about him after all, my lioness."

"I told you I was," Hermione said stiffly. "I told you he couldn't be trusted."

Pansy swallowed hard, colliding with the wall behind her and shivering at the ice that chilled her through the fabric of her dress, one hand falling to her stomach as she registered that the blade of Harry's sword, too far away to reach, was now buried in layers of ice.

"Hermione," Pansy said quietly. "Hermione, please - "

"Ah yes, and as for you," Tom said, returning his attention to Pansy. "You've been away a long time, wife. I take it you missed me? Certainly it wasn't that you foolishly led your lover to his death for anything less," he added with a mocking laugh, gesturing behind her to where Harry raged from within his ice-built cage. "Oh, and what's this?"

He locked eyes with her, tilting his head slightly as Pansy shuddered, feeling a strange, discomfiting scraping of spindle-thin nails inside her mind.

"Oh, Pansy," Tom sighed, letting it evolve to a grim chuckle. "You came here carrying a Peverell heir and thought you could survive it?" Pansy flinched, finding herself helplessly trapped. "You thought that I would let you run again, and with a challenger to my throne? Oh, Pansy," he lamented again. "I thought you were at least cleverer than  _that_."

Pansy blinked as Hermione shifted, rotating around them with her eyes fixed on Tom.

"You won't win," Pansy informed him, summoning every spare bit of strength she could find beneath sinking layers of fear. "You can't win forever, Tom. No man does. There are ascents and there are falls, and I promise you, your ruin is coming."

"Ah, but I'm hardly just a man," Tom reminded her. "Of course, I'm sure you wouldn't remember, having settled for less as of late," he added, gesturing lazily behind her to where Harry had been trapped as he took another step towards her. "But I could reassure you, if you like."

Pansy glanced over his shoulder at Hermione, watching the other woman's sharp-eyed gaze rest unflinchingly on Tom's back; finding no comfort there, she turned to stare back up at him.

"You'd better kill me this time, Tom," Pansy said flatly. "Because if you make the mistake of letting me live I won't stop coming after you. I won't stop until you're dead, and neither will Harry, and neither will all the men who turned on you. So kill me," she said, forcing a laugh. "I welcome it. Because I am only the start of it, Tom." She met his gaze defiantly, curling her nails into her palms. "Even if you kill me, I am still the beginning of your end."

Tom's cold blue gaze darkened. "Well, if that's what you wish, then - "

He reached out, but before Pansy could move away - before she could even think to flinch - Hermione's hand had shot out, forcefully wrenching Tom's arm behind his back without even touching him; without contact, and with little more than a blink.

"You will not hurt her, Tom," Hermione said quietly.

Pansy let out a breath, very nearly sinking to the floor as Tom whipped around in a rage, a howl of displeasure tearing from his lips.

"You will not hurt her," Hermione said again, drawing a bright white glow to her palms, "and I promise you, you will not hurt me."

* * *

Tom came towards her slowly, his entire body rigid with disbelief.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice laced with a low, dangerous fury. "Do you think you can turn on me, Hermione? I  _taught_  you," he snarled at her, grimacing. "There is nothing you are capable of that I didn't first plant in your head, or place in your hands - "

"I lived a life before you, Tom," Hermione spat back at him. "And I will live a long time after, too. And if you are not immortal, then it is only because you failed me, not because I failed you."

"Hermione," Tom snapped, and she watched the power manifesting in the veins along the muscle of his hands and wrists and upwards, glowing from the vascular channels of his arms. "You think that Harry will save you? That he will be any better than I have been? He will kill you, you know. He will kill you - he will have to, and even if he somehow foolishly doesn't, then he will diminish you to nothing, and you and I know that would be worse. You and I  _both_  know that you will not stand to return to rubble," he snarled at her. "That you came from nothing, and that you would rather die than go back."

"I don't need Harry," Hermione said bluntly. "I don't need you. Ask me," she challenged with a step towards him, glaring up at him even as she felt the earth tremble beneath her feet, the sky itself tinged with red. "Ask me what a Queen is without a King, Tom." She leaned forward, placing an icy hand on his cheek, and placed her lips near his ear. " _Ask_ ," she commanded him, and he tore away from her with a flicker of rage.

"You cannot control me," he said through gritted teeth, power releasing from his fingers like a whip to slash against the ground beside her feet. "You cannot control me, Hermione, and you cannot win - "

"Can't I?" Hermione asked, ignoring the line of flames he conjured to circle the two of them, drawing them closer, impossibly close. "Haven't I seen the depths of you, Tom?"

_You and your power, me and my throne, we are not ourselves without them -_

He let out a punishing laugh, reaching out to let his hand sear against her skin.

"And I know the depths of you," he returned, "and you will never be satisfied, Hermione, as I am never satisfied. You will never be whole without me, Hermione, and you can never - you  _will_  never - be complete - "

_You don't want softness, Hermione -_

_You want a love that feels like rage -_

She saw two of him again, past and present; saw all the versions of him as he had been and as he would be, reflected in the image of the flames.

 _Take this,_  a past version of him said as she slid her blue-tinted fingers along the sharpened line of his jaw.  _Take what you feel, and use it -_

Once upon a time he had taught her to reach for something she scarcely knew she possessed; he taught her to reach for control, for vastness, to give them space, to calm it, to find the stillness she could harness so that she could be of some use to him. Once, he had taught her to take the little corners of herself, to feel them echo inside her; to use the little bits of herself, to suppress them, to find instead what he had wanted from her.

Control.

Always control.

_Is that all anything is?_

_You, and the things you can control?_

"Hermione," Tom ground out, and she could see clearly now through swimming flashes of incoherence that the sky was more than red - that it was richer, darker, fuller, and so thick she could fall back and drown in it - and that this, finally, was the nightmare she had been waiting for; that this was the ending she had been promised each time she closed her eyes.

It had always been easy when they were touching, when they were close, for her to find the pieces of him; the elements of what he was that had been so helplessly drawn to hers. He had known it upon sight, and she had known it, too - that the moment her eyes fell on his, she had found another missing piece of what she was, and he had seen just as well that the moment they met they would not be parted except by force.

Except by terrible force; except by violence, except by death; except by the destruction of what had once belonged to them both.

 _So when you take a life,_  she heard herself ask, as Tom let out a howl of agony and she let a hiss of pain slide through her teeth,  _you do it with a piece of yours?_

 _If I did not imbue something with a piece of myself_ , he challenged her in return,  _what power would I have over it?_

"Hermione!" Tom shouted, his nails digging into her skin as she was certain the flames were real now, and not just of his creation, but of hers as well. "You wouldn't  _dare_ ," he raged, thrashing against her touch. "You will be nothing without me, Hermione - you will be nothing!"

It had been hard to conjure vastness before; difficult, if not close to impossible, to find her stillness. She had tried and failed to be cool, to be cold, but this, the matching of herself to him, was easy. She closed her eyes, finding the piece of herself that was most like him; the sharpest edge of herself, filled with rage and hatred and  _the brains of a man, a pity - a gifted mind, wasted - a woman, do you think us fools?_ and  _I raised you up from nothing, nothing, nothing, and I can drag you down again -_ and used the heat of her anger to bind herself to him.

It was so hauntingly familiar; her resentment found his as easily as if they'd been born from the same font of fury.

_My son, the King!_

_You want a love that feels like rage -_

_Is that not love, Hermione?_

_This is what you made me, Hermione -_

_This is what you've done!_

She'd possessed parts of Draco before and marveled at him; she had held Rabastan Lestrange's very being in her hands and made it hers, and yet nothing she had ever done had been like trying to take hold of Tom. It was easy, easy enough to find the pieces of him that matched hers, but still, even with her anger, he was as difficult to manage as fire itself; as impossible to hold as if she'd tried to grasp blindly at the wind. The closer she bound them, the more it burned; the more it felt as though a malignant piece of herself were only growing stronger, growing wilder, and raging more violently out of control.

_You and your power, me and my throne, we are not ourselves without them -_

_What have I done - what have I done -_

Her vision was blurred from effort when she saw it; the sword, which she'd taken from Harry, that Pansy yanked free from the frozen ground. She watched the flash of loose raven hair as Pansy drove the blade into the side of Tom's neck, slicing through him; sending him, dizzied, to the side.

Tom let out a terrible yell - a scream of rage, of fury, of wrath that would not be extinguished - but even then, Hermione knew a mere blade wouldn't be enough.

So she took the piece of him - the shard of him - and brought it crashing down, driving it into them both like a knife, like a dagger, like a sliver of ice. She felt it tear at the depths of her; the last vestiges of a hunger, a curse, that swept through her like a current.

_My son, the King!_

_This is what you made me, Hermione -_

_This is what you've done!_

At once, the sky was dark, an ebony pitch of smoke -  _a brash darkness_  - and she could see somewhere behind Tom a face, a hand outstretched for hers  _\- a bright paleness_  - and everything she had lived so many times, so many ways -

 _The hollow glow of a raised crown_  -

 _A strike of steel against gold_  -

_Reach inside yourself and take it -_

"What is a Queen without a King?" she asked again, looking Tom one last time in the eye to watch the blue in them start to extinguish.

He stared at her, wordless, and collapsed to his knees, the sky burning black around them.

"Unburdened," she promised him, before finally letting him fall.


	22. Legacy

**Chapter 22: Legacy**

Pansy stood still, watching Tom crumble at Hermione's feet and shakily staring at the blood on her dress as Draco and Harry launched forward, Harry's fingers closing around Pansy's arm to draw her numbly against his chest as Draco stopped just short of reaching Hermione.

Harry had always said it wouldn't be a blade that killed Tom, but Pansy hadn't understood what that meant until she'd stabbed him with one herself; until she'd seen how a man with a sword in his neck might somehow only howl with rage rather than fall in defeat. Until that day she thought she'd seen enough to know the limits of possibility, but clearly it could still surprise her - could  _astound_  her - and disrupt everything she knew to be true, and there was nothing more unearthly than the ruins of a world that had fallen down around her. The courtyard, once so dependably solid, could be alternately imprisoned in ice or entombed in flames; her former husband, once little more than a bitterly cruel man, could conjure hell itself; her rival, once only a cold-hearted woman, could take mastery of a King's soul without fear.

Harry had said it wouldn't be a blade that killed Tom, but even in a world where nothing seemed as indisputable as it had once been, some truths still remained. That combined, a concealed blade and the element of surprise were weapons enough to weaken a man; that a man caught unawares could eventually be brought down. Pansy had known that whatever Harry had said to be true about Tom wasn't totally without exception, because the rules of roguish combat at least remained untouched. She had seen Hermione struggling; she had known it wasn't enough. That alone, neither of them could manage a final blow, but together, there might have been a chance.

Perhaps Pansy hadn't killed Tom with a blade; that much appeared to be true. But she had stabbed him with one at the opportune moment, and he was certainly dead now - so the two didn't seem entirely separate revelations.

In the minutes that followed Tom's death, the woman who would be Queen - the witch, the enchantress, the challenger who'd saved Pansy's life - only stared blankly at where he lay on the ground, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Wait," Hermione said, holding up a hand as Draco took a tentative step towards her. "I need to - I need to fix it. Fix this." She closed her eyes. "Just - "

"Granger," Draco attempted, his voice hoarse with hesitation. "Hermione - "

Pansy stumbled back, shrinking in Harry's arms as the sky around them started to fade from its molten pitch of black. Hermione stretched a hand out, the palms of her hands still glowing, and gradually, the fires around them tamed; the smoke dissipated; the ash eased from their lungs, evaporating gradually as the dark cloud that had settled over the castle slowly sank beneath their feet, dissolving with a hiss against the courtyard ground.

When Hermione opened her eyes again, nobody spoke for a moment.

Then she turned to Harry.

"Do you plan to kill me now?" Hermione asked neutrally, and Pansy felt Harry's arms go tense around her. "It will be difficult," Hermione added coldly. "I may have saved your wife, but that doesn't mean I will go willingly to my own death."

Harry said nothing.

"You know as well as I do that I kept you from breaking your vow," Hermione continued, with a hint of something that Pansy suspected might have been a morbid form of humor. "I said that challenging Tom would cost you your life, and I kept you from it." She met his eye with fierceness, with undeniable certainty. "I offered a life for a life, Harry, and I plan to hold you to it."

"This is regicide," Harry noted, finally clearing his throat. "And by virtue of inheritance, the throne should be mine."

"You were struck from succession law," Hermione countered. "Disinherited."

"Yes, by a now-dead King," Harry returned bluntly. "I have nobles waiting on my behalf, and I could summon them here."

"You could," Hermione permitted, her gaze falling gradually on Pansy's, "but perhaps you won't wish to."

Pansy blinked.

"Ask your wife if she wants to be Queen," Hermione told Harry, prompting Pansy to stiffen. "If she really, truly wants it. Ask her if she enjoyed being the tool of the men around her," Hermione suggested, "or if she enjoyed the constant danger of the life she lived. Ask her if possessing the crown ever brought her pleasure." She paused, glancing again at Pansy. "I wager she will deny it, and if she does not, she is lying."

"This isn't about me," Pansy ventured brusquely, glaring at Hermione. "Leave me out of this."

"Leave you out?" Hermione scoffed. "Aren't you tired of being left out, Pansy? Doesn't it make you  _sick_ ," she spat between gritted teeth, "that no one will ever ask you what you want? Not today, and maybe not ever? Perhaps Tom disappointed you, perhaps he hurt you, perhaps he undervalued you. Has Harry never let you down?" she asked, and Pansy knew Hermione could see it on her face; could see the way she still saw Harry riding away from her, disappearing into the night. "Can you honestly say he was thinking of you when he made this choice?"

"Stop," Pansy said firmly, but Harry shifted with hesitation, looking from her to Hermione.

"What do you propose, then?" he asked guardedly, as across from Hermione, Draco's brow grew equally furrowed. "Clearly you have something in mind."

"Of course. It's not complicated; leave me the throne," Hermione suggested, and Pansy suffered a breath of opposition that stopped just short of a gasp. "I am Tom's legal successor," she reminded them. "Let the rivalry between the Peverells and Gaunts have died today with Tom."

Pansy stiffened. "You will not harm Harry," she began, and Hermione cut her off with a shake of her head.

"No, I won't," she agreed. "Conditionally, of course, but after all, there is a witness who can testify that both the Peverell heir and the Gaunt King died today." Hermione let her gaze travel slowly to Draco, falling on him with an ease so practiced that Pansy wondered if he were not a little bit wrong about his effect on her. "Wasn't there?" Hermione asked him, and Draco glanced at Harry, who looked inescapably bemused, before turning back to her.

"What will happen if I say it was you?" Draco prompted.

"I'll kill you," Hermione replied.

"And if I say otherwise?"

"If you say you witnessed the defeat of the King at Harry's hands, and Harry's death by virtue of a final blow from the King, then I assume the throne without contest," Hermione supplied easily. "With the Peverell line gone, there is no heir to rally behind except me. The nobles who opposed Tom have no reason to oppose me." She glanced at Harry again. "I swear to you, Harry, that I will not be the kind of ruler that he was."

"Still, it won't be easy," Draco protested. "You may have successfully held your regency while Tom was at war, but this is another matter. There has never been a permanent Queen Regnant, and with the nobles grasping for whatever financial powers remain - "

"Then I will have to marry another noble," Hermione agreed. "Someone wealthy enough to provide my reign stability, but who will not grasp at power for himself - either because he doesn't wish to, or, perhaps, because I will kill him if he does." She tore her gaze from Harry's to permit her attention to land on Draco's face at that, lingering there for a moment. "On an unrelated note," she added casually, "seeing as I am the legal successor to the throne, your betrothal to Lady Delacour is void, Lord Malfoy. It was arranged by my predecessor and I will not hold you to it if you do not wish it."

"I - " Draco swallowed, staring at her. "Wh- really? You would - "

"Hold on," Pansy interrupted, taking a few combative steps forward. "You do not get to strip Harry of his birthright for your own good, Hermione - nor you, Draco," she accused him. "You  _will not_  take this from him, not when he has fought so hard, so tirelessly - "

"Wait," Harry said, gently reaching out to hold her back, taking her face in his hands. "Pansy," he murmured to her, brushing his lips against her cheeks, first, and then her lips. "Pansy, she's right. She's right, I have asked so much of you, and - " he faltered, clearing his throat. "What would you have in your future?" he asked, prompting her to silence as he stroked her cheek. "Tell me the truth, Pansy."

"I," she began, and immediately stopped. "Harry, no. Harry this is - she's just - "

"What do you see?" Harry asked, and she looked up into his familiar green eyes, finding a strangely potent sincerity in them. "What does your future look like, Pansy, in a life where you are happy?"

She opened her mouth; closed it.

"No," she said quietly, shaking her head. "No, Harry, don't make me do this -"

_Don't bend -_

"Why not?"

_Don't break -_

"Because I'll disappoint you," she whispered. "I can't - I can't give you the answer you want, Harry, and I can't - I don't want to - "

"You will not disappoint me," Harry promised her. "Just -  _tell_  me," he urged at a murmur, and Pansy sighed, shaking her head.

"I only want you," she admitted, shivering a little at the confession. "I will be the Queen you need me to be if you ask it of me; I promised you I would be, and I will. But - " she trailed off, staring at where Tom lay crumpled at Hermione's feet for a moment - several moments - before turning back to Harry. "This throne corrupts," Pansy confessed. "The only thing the crown ever brought me was misery. And true, perhaps it would be different with you - "

She paused, chewing her lip.

"Or," Pansy exhaled heavily, sparing him a glimpse of her hesitation, "perhaps not."

Harry stood very still for a moment, looking down at her.

Then he nodded, turning back to Hermione.

"I won't make another promise like the one I made to you before," Harry said firmly, as Pansy held her breath, waiting. "I won't promise not to challenge you. That's my condition: that I want someone worthy on my father's throne." He paused, measuring Hermione from a distance. "If you fail me," he said slowly. "If you fail Diagon - "

Hermione nodded. "I will expect to find you, sword in hand, at my door," she promised him. "I said I would not hunt you, either of you, and I mean it. You are the defender of this realm, Harry," she said, with more solemnity than Pansy would have expected from her. "I hope you live a long life protecting it."

Harry nodded, slipping his arm around Pansy's waist and then looking down at her with certainty; with a sureness that lit a flame of guilt in her chest. Pansy waited until Hermione turned her attention to Draco, the other woman's gaze softening just marginally at his approach, before turning back to Harry, subtly drawing him aside.

"Will this be enough for you?" Pansy whispered to him. "You could be making a terrible mistake, Harry. Can this ever be enough?"

"What, this?" he prompted, yanking her closer and gesturing salaciously between them. "You know, this arrangement makes  _much_  more sense, really. Rogues are not meant to have kingdoms. In fact, it says so, right in the book of rog-"

"Stop," Pansy sighed, shaking her head. "Harry, be serious - "

"I  _am_  serious," he assured her. "You saved my life, Pansy, when I thought it could not be done. You fought a battle for me when I was certain it could not be won. Now, in payment," he said in her ear, brushing his lips against her cheek, "I plan to take up that vocation we mentioned previously, wherein I never leave your bed."

She hesitated; the words were promising enough, but she'd been fooled by pretty words before.

"You realize I will be a mother soon," Pansy reminded him. "I will have obligations outside of keeping your hands busy."

"Oh, I know," Harry said with a laugh. "And I will be there, because of you. Because of you." He kissed her, softly at first, and then more firmly. "Because of you," he said again, and tightened his grip on her, his arms wrapped securely around her waist. "You cannot imagine. I would have died, Pansy, I was so sure of it - and now I will watch my son grow because of you. That will always be enough. You," he said, giving her another kiss and stealing the breath off her tongue, "will always be more than enough."

He was always so infuriating; but still, she loved the taste of him, and it was better now.

Freer.

"It may be a girl," Pansy remarked eventually, pulling away to look at him. "I should warn you that such things are known to happen."

Harry laughed. "Good," he agreed. "Then she will have her father's roguery and her mother's courage. Oh," he added blithely, "and with my recklessness, of course, and your beauty, and your utter refusal to be diminished - "

"And thus, she will be the most dangerous woman ever to live," Pansy sighed. "So you're right, Harry, perhaps we should hope for a boy."

He laughed, freely, and bent his head towards her again.

"I don't care if it's a boy," Harry said, with another kiss. "Truly, I don't."

"But what will we do?" Pansy asked him. "Simply disappear?"

"Yes," Harry said, his gaze cutting across the courtyard to where Hermione stood with Draco. "Yes, my Queen. We will simply disappear. Rather like magic," he said with a wry smile, and then he kissed her again.

And Pansy knew, as she had always known, that he had been worth fighting for.

"Will we rise again one day, do you think?" she asked him when they parted, and he hummed a little chuckle under his breath.

"We are such experts in roguery, Pansy," Harry replied, "that I cannot doubt it."

"We?" she echoed dubiously. "We're both rogues now?"

Harry shrugged. "You've wielded a very heavy weapon," he reminded her. "Experience with blades is actually on the list, you know, and if you are no longer occupied with the role of Queen of Diagon - "

"I will be the Queen of Knaves?" Pansy guessed, and Harry grinned.

"In your rightful place, at last," he confirmed solemnly, and sealed it with a kiss.

* * *

_**Ten Years Later** _

* * *

"Where are we going?" Scorpius asked, glancing up at Hermione with an earnest look of confusion. "I thought you said we were just going to visit a friend of Father's."

"We are," Hermione assured him without elaboration, glancing up to find Draco watching her with a vague look of amusement. "What? Draco, stop it."

"You should tell him the truth, my Queen," Draco replied, with his usual smug look of righteousness. "He's going to find out eventually. Aren't you?" he asked his son, and Scorpius nodded vigorously.

"Yes, Mother, please. I'd just like to  _know_  - "

"Fine. But you must keep this a secret," Hermione told him firmly. "Do you understand?"

"A secret," Scorpius replied, frowning. "From Severus? And from Alessia and Milo, too?" he asked, naming the young Nott twins, whom Hermione knew perfectly well were her son's preferred conspirators at court during the six months a year they were in residence.

"Actually, Alessia and Milo know this particular secret," Hermione told him. "As do Lord and Lady Nott, and Severus as well. But still, you shouldn't discuss it. Do you understand?"

Scorpius nodded firmly. "Now who are we visiting?" he asked again, and Hermione leaned over, kissing the top of his head and letting out a sigh.

"There is a man," she explained. "A friend of Father's, who runs the lands and house at Grimmauld for him. We are going to visit him."

"What's his name?"

"Harry," Hermione replied.

"Is he your friend too, Mother?"

"Yes," Hermione said, and hesitated. "And his wife, too," she determined after a moment.

"Who is she?"

"She's called Pansy," Hermione offered. "And they have a child around your age."

Scorpius made a face. "Is this a betrothal?" he asked sulkily, and Hermione shook her head, stifling a laugh under her breath.

"No, not yet. Not here. You'll have to marry for the good of the kingdom," she reminded him, and Scorpius groaned. "A foreign princess, most likely, to cement our alliances."

"But you married Father, and he's just a noble," he reminded her.

"'Just' a noble," Draco repeated drily, shaking his head. "Betrayed, and by my _own son_  - "

"Yes," Hermione confirmed with a laugh, "Yes, I married your father, Scorpius, and a very good thing I did, too. He helped me t-"

"To save Diagon from the old King's debts, I know, I know," Scorpius grumbled. "Severus is always talking about money, Mother, or the kingdom. He never stops."

"Nor should he," Hermione reminded him. "That's his job, isn't it? That, and teaching you -"

"But why Father, then?" Scorpius interrupted. "Because he had money?"

Hermione looked up, meeting Draco's expectant grey gaze.

"That," Hermione permitted loftily, "and perhaps a bit more."

**oOo**

_For a moment, when the piece of Tom had been severed from her, Hermione felt she had been emptied of everything. It was as if without her anger - and without his - she had been left with a vacancy, never to be filled except by a hollow aching in her bones at what had been lost; at what she had cost them; at what she had done._

_Not so._

" _You hate me," Draco reminded her, taking a step closer. "You've said so many times, Granger, and I hate to make this about me, but at the very least it should be noted how attentively I listen."_

" _Yes," she agreed. "I hate you, and you hate me, and what we have is very mutual. Isn't it?" she prompted knowingly, and he rolled his eyes._

" _Yes. But why should I agree to anything? You recently killed a man," he noted. "And here I'd grown so comfortable thinking you weren't particularly sold on murder."_

" _Well, never mistake the things I say for idle threats," Hermione told him. "Particularly," she added, "if you plan to consider my offer. I won't be ruled by a man again," she warned him. "Whatever gentle animosity I may feel for you, I'll still kill you before I let you try to destroy me."_

" _Gentle animosity," Draco echoed. "Is that supposed to be something close to affection?"_

"That' _s what you're getting from this?" she demanded irritably, and he gave her a terrible, alluring smirk._

" _You never actually made me an offer, Granger," he reminded her, and she growled her disapproval._

" _I'm your Queen, Malfoy. That's part of the deal. Address me properly until I say otherwise."_

" _Yes, right, sorry - Your Majesty," he amended drily. "This offer you think you've made me; I'm afraid the details are a bit ambiguous. Are you suggesting we make our current situation something of a permanent arrangement?" he asked, taking a step towards her. "Our situation being mutual hatred, of course."_

_She grimaced._

" _Well, perhaps it's because I killed my husband, and so my judgment is slightly off," Hermione supplied gruffly, "but - " she exhaled. "I find you are the one man I trust not to lie to me," she admitted slowly, "and therefore the only one I wish at my side."_

_She caught a small twitch of his lips; amusement, or perhaps something more earnest, like pleasure._

" _Not to make this worse," Draco prompted slyly, "but I imagine that's probably because I'm the one man you've never lied to."_

_She made a face. "Only because I assumed I'd eventually kill you."_

" _Come to think of it, you mentioned that a few times, yes."_

" _But," Hermione insisted firmly, "I need you to understand that I alone will be the reigning Queen. You can be a prince beside me if you wish it, but I will still require your loyalty, and your service, and your -"_

_She broke off as he bent his head, lowering his lips to hers as he slid his hands around her hips, holding her steady. It was as tempting as ever, a troubling bit of something intangible that danced on her tongue, but she succumbed to it with ease, without apprehension; with the sense of something that would not aim to destroy her, but might enrich her._

_Something to keep her afloat._

" _Yes," she exhaled eventually, clearing her throat. "Yes. I will require that, too."_

" _Well," Draco said. "If my Queen commands me - "_

" _I do," Hermione said, and Draco stared at her for a moment, his eyes following the lines of anticipation on her face, before slowly lowering himself to one knee._

" _Then, Majesty," he said, inclining his head before drawing his grey gaze up to hers, "I would deny you nothing."_

**oOo**

"We're here," Draco informed them, stepping out of the carriage first before holding a hand out for Hermione's. "Ah," he called, turning over his shoulder to see Harry approaching. "Potter, good to see my lands are being managed well - "

"You mean my lands," Harry returned at a mutter, rolling his eyes.

"If you say so," Draco said, shrugging, and Harry turned to Hermione, offering her a bow.

"Your Majesty," he offered, rising up to meet her eye with his usual roguish grin. "And I presume this is our young prince?" he asked, as Scorpius climbed down from the carriage door. "Your Highness," Harry acknowledged, dropping into another bow. "It's a pleasure to have you and your family. Now," he said, turning back to Draco and gesturing them inside. "Malfoy, I've been meaning to tell you - "

"Mother," Scorpius whispered, reaching out to pause her. "Why is he so - "

"Direct?" Hermione asked, and Scorpius nodded, visibly bemused. "It's just his way. You'll get used to it."

"But nobody looks at you," Scorpius said with a frown. "They never look at your eyes, Mother. And I thought you said that the crown - "

"Well, this is an exception," Hermione told him briskly. "Now hush, Scorpius, try to enjoy yourself - "

"Hermione," she heard, and turned as they entered the Grimmauld castle, catching sight of Pansy as she walked towards them. They had seen each other a few times before then, but Hermione still marveled that for the decade of her reign, Pansy had not lost her beauty, nor her refinement; if anything, she had grown more beautiful over time. Life as the wife of a large country estate seemed to agree with her. "You're looking well. And this must be Scorpius," Pansy added, her dark gaze falling on his anxious little face. "Your Highness, what a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, My Lady," Scorpius replied, sparing Pansy a bow as the other woman laughed, delighted.

"What a perfect little prince. Harry," she called to her husband, turning to where he and Draco were poring over a map. "Where is our miscreant child?"

"Ah, yes, that one," Harry agreed, looking up. "Somewhere around here, I'm sure, and until then - would you like to look at these yields with us?" he beckoned to Scorpius. "Perhaps you should come see how your father does things, so you can learn how to improve upon it - "

"Christ, Potter," Draco growled disapprovingly, shaking his head, but Scorpius nodded solemnly, glancing up at Hermione for permission.

She nudged him forward, watching him go as Pansy stepped closer, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Your son is very handsome," Pansy remarked, watching him go. "He seems very strong and tall for his age, too."

"Oh, he is," Hermione assured her. "Draco and I are very proud of him."

"Yes, of course, as you should be," Pansy said, and then paused, clearing her throat. "Though, I can't help but notice," she ventured carefully, glancing askance at Hermione. "His eyes."

Hermione fidgeted. "Yes?"

"They're very," Pansy began, and tilted her head. "Blue," she murmured, as Hermione felt her spine stiffen.

"They're very like Draco's," she permitted. "Certainly more his than mine."

Pansy leveled a solemn gaze at Hermione.

"You and I both know we will never forget that shade of blue," she said quietly, her voice barely over a whisper.

**oOo**

" _Does he haunt you still?" Draco murmured, running his fingers up and down Hermione's arm in slow, delicate circles._

" _I thought he would," Hermione confessed. "I thought I would see traces of him in his absence. Actually, I thought I would feel him," she admitted. "Feel the way his anger was both hot and cold at the same time. I thought I would suffer its absence like a phantom limb."_

" _And do you?" Draco prompted._

" _No," Hermione admitted. "I feel as if something malignant was excised."_

" _I think the court feels it too," Draco said. "Even the older nobles. It's as if it's possible to breathe again."_

" _Do you think they will ever love me, as Harry was loved?" Hermione asked absently. "Or fear me, as Tom was feared?"_

" _I think they respect you, for having earned their respect," Draco said. "And they honor you, for being worthy of honor."_

_Hermione paused the wanderings of his fingers, drawing his knuckles up to brush her lips against them._

_Gratitude._

" _About our son," she ventured cautiously, and Draco shook his head._

" _If this is about his eyes - "_

" _He's like me," Hermione said bluntly, and Draco blinked. "I've seen glimpses of it. He can't control it yet," she added, "but someday I'll have to teach him. Perhaps when he's eleven or so."_

_Draco nodded, looking lost in thought._

" _What?" she prompted, and he glanced down at her, hesitating._

" _Is he like you," he asked slowly, "or is he like Tom?"_

_Hermione reached up, curling a hand around Draco's cheek._

" _He has his father's better nature," she promised him. "Overly dramatic. Occasionally insistent on getting his way. At times, a little too smug -"_

" _Hilarious," Draco said, rolling his eyes._

"  _\- but honorable," Hermione finished. "Clever, self-sacrificing, and principled." She kissed his hand again. "He will be a good King, and he has you to thank for that."_

" _No," Draco said, shaking his head. "That he learned from you."_

_Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and then paused._

" _And his eyes?" she asked, fighting a moment of apprehension._

_Draco shrugged. "Blood is only blood," he said. "You taught me that."_

_Hermione nodded. "Blood is only blood," she agreed, and thought, for once, that she finally understood nobility._

**oOo**

Before Hermione could reply to Pansy's comment, a young girl had appeared in the door frame, coming to a sudden halt in the same moment that Scorpius turned over his shoulder, spotting her from across the room.

" _There_  you are," Pansy sighed at the sight of her. "Where have you been?"

The girl turned her head, and in less than a glance, Hermione could already see that her parentage was unmistakable. She had Harry's green eyes and raven hair - undeniably her father's daughter - but she carried herself precisely as Pansy did; with all the poise that her mother possessed, and with the same keen gaze of calculation, lending a sharpness to her beauty.

"Lady Mother," the girl replied sweetly, sparing Pansy an affectionately reverent curtsy. "Your Majesty," she added to Hermione, though Hermione found her gaze strangely unnerving; as if the girl knew a secret that Hermione didn't.

"Aurora," Harry called to his daughter, beckoning for her to join them. "This is Prince Scorpius," he informed her, gesturing, and Hermione watched her son face Pansy's daughter in a daze.

"My Lady," Scorpius said, recovering from a bit of shock to offer a well-trained bow.

"Your Highness," Aurora offered, lowering herself to a curtsy.

It was nothing, Hermione thought, observing them.

It  _should_  have been nothing.

Instead, in the moment that Scorpius and Aurora rose up, locking eyes, Hermione felt a rush of something; a flood, a storm, of something she hadn't felt in many years. For a moment, a hurricane of imagery and voices spun around her, rooting her in place - a flash of things, of nothings, and glimmers that tore the breath from her lungs.

_Aurora, the goddess of the dawn -_

Hermione blinked back her son's face; the image of his blue eyes, locked on Aurora's green ones.

_You cannot have it - you cannot have what is mine -_

_I can_ , Hermione heard a woman's voice reply.  _I can, and I will. I have my father's blood and my mother's courage_ , the voice said boldly, ringing through Hermione's head,  _and I am the best of them both -_

 _If I have not been given my throne by virtue of my parentage_ , the voice continued,  _then I will have to take it -_

_If my throne is not given to me, then it will be earned!_

_Aurora,_  Hermione heard a man's voice plead.  _Aurora, don't do this - don't do this to us -_

_How can I not?_

A flash of raven black; of two crowns, and two hands both reaching; a flicker of passion, of star-crossed rage; glimmers and shadows, murmurs in the dark, promises made to be broken; the resurrections of two warring lines, defended by two crossed swords; a snake and a lioness, and a whisper of  _please, Aurora, please_  -

_If only it were different -_

_You cannot love me, Scorpius, I will not let you -_

_Would you really deny this?_

_If my throne is not given to me, then it will be earned!_

_Aurora, please!_

Hermione gasped at the woman's face behind her eyes, so much like her mother's; the same sharp-eyed gaze with her own breathless fury, with a long silken braid and a flash of gold, of longing, a sunburst of triumph around the girl's head as unmistakable as her own son's blue eyes;  _a blue_ , Hermione saw with anguish,  _that burst into flames_ -

 _Aurora,_  Hermione heard; a whisper, then, from somewhere far away, a future calling to a past.  _Aurora, she will rise like the dawn -_

A whisper, and then a shout of memory.

_Tomorrow will come, Hermione -_

_I won't forget this, Hermione, and tomorrow will come -_

She stumbled back to find Draco's hand at her elbow, steadying her.

"What is it?" he asked in her ear, looking concerned, and Hermione shuddered against her will, blinking back the images in her head.

"Nothing," she said, forcing it out. "Nothing, Draco, I'm fine, I just - "

She looked up to find that Harry was watching her, and could tell at once that he knew what she'd seen. She froze, staring back at him, and caught the faint hint of a subtle glow from his palms where they rested gently on his daughter's shoulders.

"You," she began, and broke off, startled. "I didn't -  _you_  can - "

Harry's smile twitched slightly. "Your Majesty," he said in acknowledgement, inclining his head in confirmation, and Hermione caught the eye of the woman who stood on his right; the woman who would always be her enemy, however much they wished to be friends.

 _Have you seen what I have seen?_  Hermione wanted to ask her, but she knew the answer as soon as Pansy met her gaze, their two children still standing opposite each other.

"Are you well, Mother?" Scorpius asked, turning to look at her, and Hermione managed a slow, unsteady nod, glancing from his face to Aurora's.

 _I should have known_ , Hermione thought, staring down at the Peverell daughter.  _I should have known my biggest fear would always be a woman -_

"Perhaps we should have a drink and toast to something," Pansy suggested wryly. "To the future, perhaps?"

 _Tomorrow will come,_  she heard Pansy say,  _and I will be waiting._

Hermione shook herself of her apprehension, turning to Pansy with a nod.

"To the future," she agreed, taking what she'd seen and burying it in a vault.

 _Tomorrow will come,_  she thought in reply,  _and I will be ready when it does._

**oOo**

_When Tom fell, it was the two women who killed him who gravitated towards each other._

" _You used me against Harry," Pansy said when they were alone again, the line of her mouth a grave edge of accusation. "Don't think I don't know what you did. You used me as a tool to hold your throne."_

" _Oh, I won't deny it. You have always been very transparent, Pansy," Hermione reminded her. "You want love above anything else, and because of that, I have always known what you would choose."_

" _So I suppose you think you've won, then," Pansy said bitterly, her gaze darkening. "I won't forget it, you know. I won't forget that you used me to keep Harry from his throne."_

" _You said yourself you didn't want it," Hermione reminded her. "You want love, you want Harry - and now you can have it, with him. You can have them both. You can have everything you wanted, can't you? I kept him alive for you when I could have let him die," she pointed out,_ " _and in exchange, you will let me keep the crown. We're even."_

" _Still," Pansy insisted. "I won't forget this, Hermione. I won't forget why you chose what you chose, even if it means I have what I wanted. Tomorrow will come, Hermione, and I will not forget."_

" _Tomorrow will come," Hermione agreed. "And we will know then, as we have always known, that for all that I may think of you and whatever you may think of me, we were never born to build each other up." She paused. "And I suppose that's only right, isn't it?" she prompted with a grimace. "After all, the world would have us be enemies."_

_There was a long pause._

" _Enemies," Pansy echoed musingly. "When I have saved your life, and you have saved mine? Seems a rather impractical demand, even from the world."_

_Hermione nodded her agreement. "For so long my life has been so inescapably ruled by men that I thought the biggest fear I would ever have would take the shape of one. Strange, then, isn't it?" Hermione murmured. "That today I could bring down a sorcerer-King, and yet I will probably fear you for as long as I live."_

_To her surprise, Pansy shrugged._

" _Fear isn't hate," Pansy remarked. "If the world had been different, perhaps we might have been friends;_ truly  _friends. And while it is not the case - and while I must protect myself from you, for at least as long as I wish to stay alive," she commented wryly, as Hermione spared her an acknowledging nod, "I don't believe I will ever have the energy to hate you." She glanced around the courtyard, gesturing to the blood that remained on their gowns. "Look what damage hate has already done."_

" _Instead, we are what we are," Hermione noted. "Marked as rivals from the start, and by a world that demands we despise each other."_

_For a moment, they both only nodded. It seemed an impossible thing to believe; that for all they had been through, they'd reached a détente. By virtue of circumstance, it would always come to this._

_That they would never be friends._

_That they_ could  _never be friends._

" _And yet," Pansy said, surprising Hermione once again. "If that is what the world demands," she offered slowly, "then how fashionable of us to refuse."_

_She held out her bloodied hand, and without hesitation, Hermione took it. In a motion, both of them pledged something that wasn't quite fealty - something that certainly wasn't fraternity, nor resignation, nor even truly much at all - but that wasn't any less enduring, either._

" _I daresay you will make a very good Queen," Pansy said, with more truth than bitterness. "You will fight many more battles, with many more enemies more worthy than me." Her mouth quirked slightly. "I wish you triumph in all of them - so long as your victories do not stand to threaten me."_

" _No enemy I face will ever be more worthy than you," Hermione replied. "And I hope, for your sake, that you never cross me again."_

" _I would hate to have to destroy you," Pansy remarked._

" _As would I," said Hermione._

_They let their hands fall to their sides, nodding in concert._

" _Let the future come, then," Hermione offered. "I will be ready."_

" _Let the future come," Pansy agreed, "and I will wait."_

_They both nodded._

_They'd always had a certain understanding._

* * *

_**FIN** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I began this story, which is expanded from an Amortentia one shot, on an originality high. At the time, I was exploring different styles of narratives and playing with different textures of characters, and I was never more encouraged than the day I started writing this. Unfortunately, what this story quickly taught me is that the fanfic community is unforgiving towards creativity.
> 
> I set out to write a story that was (for once) not exclusively a romance, but an exploration of lives, of circumstance, of the difficulties inherent in female relationships, of the troubling nature (and terrible recalcitrance) of fate - and for most of you who have been with me throughout this process, I think you were able to see that. To you, whoever you may be: you made this worth doing. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your positivity when you did, because it persuaded me to continue when I was made to feel incredibly low. Please remember that it does make a difference; if you love a work, please share your feelings, whatever that story may be.
> 
> If you enjoyed this particular story, I would encourage you to seek out my original work, as I doubt I will ever write a fanfic in this style or with this degree of experimentation again. My book, **Masters of Death** , will be available on Amazon on Wednesday, January 31 (which is, coincidentally, my birthday). The link will be available on my website: www.olivieblake.com. If you liked my writing, I would be incredibly grateful if you would consider giving my imagination a try with something new.
> 
> It's with a lot of sadness that I step away from this story (though, as we speak, someone is calling a protagonist a 'piece of shit,' which I decidedly will not miss). Still, it is always an honor to put these words down for you, and I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the story.
> 
> xx, Olivie


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